I refer the unrise

I refer
the unrise
Copyright Application in Progress, 2010;
for
Anna Rae ( Roberta J. ) Aberle.
All Rights Reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form
without written permission by the author.
Printed in the United States of America.
Cover artwork designed by Green Jeans Creative
www.greenjeanscreative.com
U.S. Copyright Office Application and Library of Congress
Cataloguing in Progress
ISBN-13: 978-1-4564-1377-4
ISBN-10: 1-4564-1377-5
CKNOWLEDGEMENTS & RATITUDE
It definitely takes a village to achieve anything significant, as is the
case with this novel. I am overwhelmed at the time and energy that
so many people invested in the process of making my dream a
reality.
I want to acknowledge the contributions of the following people in
making this a more solid story: Amy Shapiro Bossard, Patrick
Kelley, Mikki Knight, Sylvia Leupp, Paul Robbins, Kevin Carroll,
Mytchell Mead, Doreen Smith, Lisa Grastataro, Jean McMains,
Sandy Ley, Amy Cunningham, Jackie Olson, Reenie Anduss, Colleen
Walraven, Cathy Lynch, Deb Gerard, Kim Smith, Dana Engle,
Brenda Cordle, Betsy Kellogg, Liz Schupbach and Karen Doebelin.
For my best friend, Lauri: You reappeared in my life at a critical
point when I most needed inspiration and hope. Your dedication to
this work made it the best it could possibly be.
For D.: There is a spirit that hovers over me, a potential that was
never meant to be; yet in every child’s laughter I honor the loss of
that soul.
For my parents, Tony & Rose: You gave me the gift of education and
planted all the seeds of my love of literature.
For my sister, our angel, Brenda: You didn’t live to see this become a
reality, yet I see you in every flowers bloom and know you share this
with me from your place in Heaven.
For my friend and angel, Vince: You gave me a glimpse of true love
and the faith that I would find it one day.
For my partner and husband, David: You believed in me, in this
work and sacrificed more than most in the journey of this book’s
completion. My gratitude is as deep as our endless sunsets.

“In the darkest hour
the soul is replenished and given strength
to continue and endure.”
Heart Warrior Chosa

Page 7
ROLOGUE
I wondered what we would have named the baby if it had
lived. If Joe had wanted it to live. It. “It” was a callous title, but
twelve weeks was too early to distinguish the baby’s sex to refer to it
as either a girl or a boy.
The grief counselor at my bedside while I lay dazed in the
hospital after my miscarriage introduced herself as “Barbara.” Even
though she smiled when she entered my room, I only saw deeply
lined rivers of her hideous orangey-peach hued lipstick that bled
from her barely perceptible lips. With hands rigid like the cold,
caked snow outside my window, she lifted my left hand with coarse
and hardened fingers that felt like a dehydrated sponge, pores
sucked dry of even the tiniest droplet of water, as she recited a feeble
prayer from a laminated card in her pocket.
“Comfort this woman in her sorrow. Restore her hope for this
child that was not meant to be,” she read from the tattered card in a
rapid but monotonous voice. My heart clamped shut when she read,
“Give her courage and new delight in what lies before her.”
There was no delight I could imagine after this heartache.
Barbara told me I only needed to grieve a lost fetus, not a baby.
But that was her assessment of my loss. The short time line of my
pregnancy made a difference to her, but it made no difference to me.
The pain from the cramping and bleeding was nothing compared to
the sting in my heart. Regardless of Joe’s ever-shifting emotions
about my pregnancy, I’d been silently elated about becoming a
mother. Despite being entirely unplanned and far too premature in
our relationship, the excitement of bringing a new life into the world
thrilled me to tears at times.
ANNA RAE ABERLE
Page 8
Joe initially reacted with disbelief and a degree of anger, but
softened, and surprised me when he mentioned the option of
marriage. But it was only a few weeks later, once the reality and
enormity of the responsibility weighed on him, when he spoke the
dreaded words suggesting I end the pregnancy.
I couldn’t bear the thought after seeing the first ultrasound
picture of the grainy, shadowy image that didn’t resemble anything
like a baby, yet spoke to my heart just as strong as a child’s voice
could. I slid easily into the role of expectant parent while Joe came
along kicking and screaming until his negativity pervaded my own
sense of calm and certainty about giving birth. Tense and fearful
about how a baby would change our lives, I constantly worried Joe
would leave me soon after, if not even before, the birth of our baby.
Our initial attraction and heated sexuality damped dramatically
after I shared the news of my pregnancy, causing me to question the
depth of our feelings since we’d first met barely a year before.
Having only one or the other of them in my life seemed imminent
right up until the day the unthinkable happened.
After a particularly stressful night of arguing with Joe about
how I couldn’t cope with the guilt of an abortion, I felt a stabbing
sensation deep in my abdomen that nearly brought me to my knees.
A tortuous pain pummeled me as I was going up my front stairs to
sleep alone once again after one of our fights about our predicament.
I lost my grip on the handrail, plowing belly-first onto the concrete
steps as unconsciousness swallowed me.
The next night after my ordeal, Joe steered us home in the drab,
dwindling light of the day that suited my loss. He avoided all
conversation about the agony I’d just endured at the hospital. He
wasn’t smiling, but I sensed relief was pulsing in his heart. Joe
arrived hours after I regained consciousness, groggy and nauseous
from the sedation, with no explanation as to why he wasn’t there
sooner.
Joe redeemed himself somewhat when he tenderly brushed my
cheek as I fell asleep against his chest amid the mountain of pillows I
had sobbed into while he cooked me a bland dinner for my queasy
stomach. As painkillers stole my alertness, he apologetically
whispered, “I didn’t mean to do this to you.”
Page 9
hapter
The atmosphere of the holiday party had been invigorating,
even though my experience had been far from it. I moved through
the maze of cluttered tables toward Joe resolutely, our coats bundled
in my arms, disappointed to see he was still deep in conversation
with my coworkers seated at our table. Remnants of decorations
were strewn about the atrium. Speckles of glittering confetti,
interspersed with the occasional sequin whose threads had come
loose from sparkling gowns, littered the dance floor. The few
scattered cocktail glasses left behind with last gulps remaining were
polluted with diluted colors from errant confetti floating in them.
Balloons that had survived the night limped along the outskirts of
the main room while the netting from their drop dangled from the
third-floor balconies.
Glancing around as I wove through the landscape of tables
toward Joe, the centerpieces, originally fragrant, already showed
slight signs of wilting and withering. Their scent, no longer floral,
was unpleasantly tinged with soured booze and clashing fragrances
from too many varieties of perfumes and colognes. The band was
packing up their equipment and had switched on the monotonous
background music more normally piped through our company’s
lobby. It influenced the lingering party guests to vacate. It worked
on everyone but my date and his conversation hostages.
The night had not lived up to expectation. Like a child who
looks forward to the amusement park for days in advance, but then,
after the first lurching and swaying ride, feels ill and knotted in her
stomach, my excitement had likewise transformed into a sick
throbbing in my belly. I shouldn’t have been surprised. There had
been countless nights with Joe that hadn’t lived up to expectation,
ANNA RAE ABERLE
Page 10
but my false hope for a turning point in our dying relationship
persisted.
Joe had been on edge all night. From the moment he arrived to
pick me up, instead of a compliment, I was greeted with a gruff,
“How much did this dress cost?” I wanted to retort maybe he should
have invested a few dollars in better attire for himself. I hadn’t seen
his drab tweed suit on him since his father’s funeral the month
before our move to California. I winced when I noticed his shirt
collar was slightly frayed, tinged a yellowish-gray from perspiration.
His buttons strained to keep the suit coat closed, not doing enough
to conceal his bland, boring tie, easily a decade out of style.
Knowing it was better not to spark an argument, I simply kissed
him on the cheek and said, “I will be with the most handsome man
there tonight.”
Lying as a measure to appease him had become far too easy for
me.
“I have just one finishing touch,” I called over my shoulder as I
glided downstairs, relishing the luxurious velvet flowing around my
ankles.
As I rifled through my bin of earrings, Joe yelled downstairs,
louder than he needed to for the space, “I can’t believe you still have
boxes lying around!”
I paused, closed my eyes, and took a slow, deep breath. As
much as I wanted to react, I kept silent. I chose a pair of dangling
crystal earrings fastening them on quickly and ascended the stairs.
With false composure, I grabbed my coat on the way out the door,
mildly reminding Joe it had only been a few weeks since my move
into the cottage. He grumbled something I didn’t care to ask him to
repeat. During our drive across the Golden Gate Bridge and into
downtown San Francisco, our conversation was awkward and
forced. I listened with sufficient interest about his latest conflicts on
his project site, even though he didn’t acknowledge any of my few
references about my new job at the magazine company.
We arrived at my office to find the normally bustling lobby
transformed into a bustling party site. Instead of a whirlwind of
bodies confined in business suits racing from floor to floor, meeting
to meeting, the scene was a whirlwind of bodies, glittering and
glamorous, floating from table to table and twirling on the dance
floor. Dining tables were adorned with opulent centerpieces of
gargantuan blood-red poinsettias interwoven with starkly
I PREFER THE SUNRISE
Page 11
contrasting snowy white Christmas amaryllis stems. Lush, lighted
garland coiled around every column and railing in sight, thick with
deep crimson and silver ribbons. A massive decorated tree to rival
any ever on Rockefeller Plaza towered at the far end of the lobby.
The tree was surrounded by a moat of stacks and stacks of empty
boxes wrapped in rich, glistening red, white, and silver patterned
wrap, as if anyone might be deceived they actually held gifts within.
The thumping bass and energetic rhythms of the band pulsed
through the crowd. The echoes of the music raced upward through
the cavern of the building and returned with equal force, producing
an odd rhythm, as if an unseen band was playing above, mimicking
each note. Voices elevated to compete with the music once the lobby
filled to capacity, as laughter chased the melodies through the
voluminous atrium, twenty-five stories high.
The women, most wearing some variation of a chic black dress
adorned with silver, gold, or diamonds, real or faux, circulated,
linked to the arms of their spouses or dates. Some tried to appear
carefree, but I caught a few of them casting judgmental eyes at other
women they passed. Equally elegant, the conventional men in triedand-
true black suits strode with an air of regal confidence. The
executives, all in manicured tuxedoes, circulated with trays of hors
d’oeuvres through the atrium to assure every employee got the
chance to interact with them. Even being new to the publishing
industry, I could spot the business team versus the creative editorial
types by their attire; those in more sedate suits were the ones who
managed the revenue, while one writer I recognized danced by with
a lighted Rudolph nose blinking on his tie.
It was the most extravagant event I’d attended in my entire life.
I barely recognized some of my coworkers from the magazines with
their festive hairstyles and elegant attire. Joe and I found two empty
chairs to occupy at a table on the fringe of the party. We sat stolidly,
not quite comfortable enough to mingle, yet devoid of topics
between ourselves. Cyndi was the first to flit by, her thin, baby fine
red hair teased up, without any acknowledgement to us. She
reminded me of a squat, angular pepper in her dress of a most
unnatural green, taut skin stretched to its limits, with every bulge far
too apparent. Working together on various projects for prospective
advertisers, I’d found her cold, standoffish, and mostly impatient
with me. Cyndi had been rude to me since my first day working at
ANNA RAE ABERLE
Page 12
the magazine. She’d given me little support and shown no tolerance
for my questions while learning my new role.
Once, she had grabbed materials out of my hands and chided,
“Just let me do it. I don’t have time to wait for you to figure this
out.” Unfortunately, the majority of my projects landed in her lap for
final preparation before being distributed company-wide, so I
needed to work with her on a frequent basis. Her unattractiveness
radiated from the inside out, so I limited my interactions with her as
much as possible.
“It’s just jealousy. Look at her; look at you,” my colleague Jill
pronounced when I casually asked her about the brittle treatment
from Cyndi. “You walked into the job she didn’t get. And to add salt
to her wound, you’re gorgeous, intelligent, professional, and
talented. Everything she’s not. She’s still binding presentations and
probably five years older than you are. And you wonder why she’s
bitter?”
Jill had been one of the many bright sparks at my new
company. I’d been hired to take over her old job when she was
promoted. While she cross-trained me for my first two weeks, she
gave me advice not only on the specifics of the job but how to tackle
other organizational hurdles that would have taken me years to
figure out on my own.
As Joe and I sat, fixated on the crowd, avoiding conversation,
Jill waved to us from the dance floor, where she was dancing with
whom I suspected was Gordon, her boyfriend of four years. Jill
confided she was giving him until Christmas to propose or she was
moving on, and she was just the type of woman to uphold the threat.
Her unshakeable self-assuredness was admirable. Not fazed by the
opinions of others, she stood her ground, unafraid to show her
vulnerability, but also unafraid to demand what she wanted. I
longed for Jill’s strength of character.
Despite the festivity of the evening, Joe acted particularly
disinterested all night. He was positively dismissive when Jill and
Gordon came over to greet us after she spotted us from the dance
floor. To keep myself detached from his bad mood, I left the table
often to refresh our drinks or to replenish a plate of appetizers to
shield myself from his foul mood and reluctance to socialize.
Just after our dinner plates were cleared, my boss, Richard,
came over to our table with his wife. He introduced me as “the most
valuable person in the entire department.”
I PREFER THE SUNRISE
Page 13
Joe looked oblivious to the flattering statement. I introduced
him but fumbled it miserably. Richard didn’t know my history with
Joe. “This is my…” I stammered, “…ex-fiancé, Joe. From Colorado.”
I hadn’t rehearsed how to introduce our unusual situation.
“All the way out from Colorado, eh?” Richard asked.
“No, sir,” Joe said as he shot me a glaring look. “I live here. We
used to live in Colorado. And we’re getting married eventually.”
Obviously uncomfortable, I thought Richard would make an
excuse to move on, but he just changed the subject by asking Joe
about his work while I fixated on his wife’s jewelry. She had a
throng of gems clustered around her throat, at least five dripping
from each earlobe, and a slightly gaudy tiara woven into her dull,
over bleached blonde hair. She nearly caught me gaping once, but I
just smiled broadly and made an inane comment about how much I
was enjoying the evening. Eventually they drifted away, and Joe and
I took our seats again.
I took every opportunity to leave our table and mingle, while
Joe got captivated in conversation with other guests seated with us.
Since I didn’t recognize any of them, I deemed them less interesting
than networking at the bar or buffet. The pace of the evening was
dizzying. In the blink of an eye, the crowd thinned and dispersed as
the party dwindled to its conclusion. Once it began to die down,
then Joe was more than ready to engage and interact. Despite my
subtle suggestions to leave, Joe became more animated than he‘d
been all night, not even noticing when I left the table to retrieve our
coats.
When I dropped our coats onto the table, Joe barely
acknowledged me. He was engaged in a ridiculous discussion about
one of the idiotic TV shows he routinely watched. I separated the
twisted coats to indicate I was ready to leave, but he barely glanced
at me as he rambled. As patiently as possible, I feigned interest,
nodding at the appropriate moments. Ten minutes ticked away until
I brushed against his arm and said, “I need to hit the ladies’ room
before our drive back to Marin.”
As I entered the bathroom, the harsh overhead lighting made
me cringe and avert my eyes from the wall of mirrors. I hurried into
a stall, but while washing my hands afterward, a glance at my
reflection startled me. Drawn to the mirror, resistant, yet compelled
to analyze my face, I saw little resemblance to the woman I used to
be. The artificial glow was bad enough, but it was more than
ANNA RAE ABERLE
Page 14
unflattering light. My dark blonde hair was styled out of character
for me, too many tightly pinned curls persuaded into place by my
stylist. But, beyond a foreign style, there was something more
foreign in my reflection. I stared at my lifeless face. The new job at
the magazine had been demanding, but I saw fatigue beyond the
lack of adequate sleep. People often used the adjectives of pretty or
beautiful to describe my appearance, but neither description applied
that night. My eyes, hollow and expressionless, lacked their usual
vibrancy. I felt no connection to the reflection in the mirror and
resisted the urge to cry. I resurrected a curl and dabbed gloss onto
my lips, but it did little to enhance my appearance. I gave my
midnight blue gown one last caress and marched out to depart with
the man I had come very close to marrying.
As my shoes clicked across the marble back toward the main
room, I winced with each step as my elegant sandals pinched my
toes. Suddenly, my right heel skidded out from under me on the
slick marble walkway. I was sliding, toppling backward as the
stabilizing force of gravity evaporated in an odd and unsettling
sensation. A pair of strong hands caught me before I crashed to the
hard floor. Brought back vertically, I was disoriented until a stinging
sensation rushed down my arms, into my fingertips. Flushed and
embarrassed, I turned to see who had grabbed me. I didn’t know his
name, but his face was immediately recognizable.
“I always thought you were supposed to sweep a woman off
her feet, not catch her after the fact,” the man said in a warm tenor.
I couldn’t find a voice to provide any response whatsoever.
“Are you okay?” he asked as his face showed sudden concern
when I didn’t answer.
“No…I mean yes. Yes, I’m okay. Just a little shaken, and
completely embarrassed,” I finally uttered.
“No need for embarrassment. It’s not a great holiday party until
someone falls down,” he said with a wink. “Besides, no one here saw
it but me. It’s our little secret.”
I glanced around. He was right; there wasn’t anyone in sight.
“You didn’t rip your dress, did you?” He dropped to his knees
to inspect the hem of my gown.
“I probably did rip it,” I said with disappointed certainty.
“Nope. Entirely intact,” he assured me as he stood up, quite a
few steps closer to me.
I PREFER THE SUNRISE
Page 15
It had been just six short weeks since I‘d joined the magazine,
and right in front of me was a man I had noticed many times. I
didn’t interact with him in my position, but we had crossed paths
more times than I could count, in the elevator, in the coffee café in
our lobby, and sometimes just crossing Second Avenue from the
parking lot. He was an unmistakable and exciting presence: tall, well
over six feet, with thick jet-black hair, that despite being sleekly
groomed, had perceptible waves that looked like he worked to force
his curls to lie flat. Beside his height, he was immense and utterly
masculine, with a broad neckline and shoulders that sloped down to
a solid, athletic frame. His height and stature dominated me, but not
in a threatening way.
“We haven’t officially met. I’m Gregory. Gregory Vincent,” he
said as he thrust out his palm.
I shook his hand. “Riverdale,” I said, accidentally providing my
last name first. “Alicia. I mean…Alicia Riverdale,” I finally
stammered out my name in the right order.
He clasped his other hand over mine. “The name of my favorite
golf course is Riverdale,” he replied. I wasn’t certain what the
association meant.
“I had a dog named Vincent,” I blurted back. Dead silence and
immediate regret danced together in a sultry samba.
His hands didn’t release mine as I looked directly into his
mesmerizing eyes of the purest, deepest chocolate brown, looking
almost black in the dusky light of the lobby. Finally he spoke and
broke our gaze. “I’ll look forward to seeing you more around the
office.”
He gestured in a grand bow, he turned and walked away. He
only got a few steps before he stopped and turned back. “You look
amazing in indigo,” he said and resumed his exit.
Without grasping his compliment, I noticed he was suited in a
full tailcoat tuxedo, but paired with black jeans and cowboy boots
instead of traditional tuxedo pants with pointed, polished leather
shoes. His deep blood-red cummerbund and bow tie, with the casual
wear, seemed comically out of place.
“My compliments on your tux,” I said to the empty space. I
stood motionless, perplexed about the exchange, but equally
perplexed about how to take a step away from it. A strange and
disquieting feeling poured into me, and without desire, I continued
ANNA RAE ABERLE
Page 16
on back toward Joe. He was alone by then and visibly impatient. I
knew I was in for a long drive home.
“Where have you been?” he demanded.
I was tempted to hurl back he had delayed our departure more
than I, but it was always a bad idea to provoke him, so instead I said
I’d run into Jill in the bathroom and got caught up in conversation
with her.
As Joe and I exited the building, a small group gathered waiting
for the hired valet to fetch cars. Gregory was among them in a
midnight black overcoat making him look even grander. I half
expected him to pull out a top hat. Without a word, he smiled and
winked at me.
“Who the hell is that?” Joe hissed, gripping my arm roughly. He
grilled me about Gregory’s identity for five blocks, until I gave him
an innocent enough sounding answer.
“I slipped and fell outside the restroom, and he helped me.
Really humiliating, actually.” Joe seemed satisfied with the partial
truth.
The car doors barely banged shut before Joe began to rant about
the superficiality and tediousness of the evening. I just leaned my
head against the window and tuned him out, preferring to focus on
my accidental introduction to Gregory. I remembered a few times
when I’d literally frozen when he had tried to engage me in
conversation over the course of my first months at the new offices.
Each time I had blown my chance.
Gregory had never said the basic “good morning” or “hello”,
instead, he approached me with some commentary of a most
unusual nature. Like the one stormy morning when I stood next to
him, waiting to cross the street from the parking structure. I hadn’t
anticipated rain and left my umbrella on the front table; leaving me
to stand paralyzed by the cold, my hair plastered to my skull from
the freezing drizzle. Gregory had leaned sideways toward me,
without directly making eye contact and said, “I hope you’re not
hoping to start a new hair trend with this look.”
At first I was offended, so I just ignored his comment,
pretending not to hear him until I got to the lobby bathroom and
turned mortified when I saw how awful my hair did look proving his
comment was truly made in jest to absolve me of embarrassment.
Not only had the rain soaked it, but a gust of wind must have blown
hard, which flipped sections of my hair into frozen and opposing
I PREFER THE SUNRISE
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directions. I was thankful when later that day, Gregory had stepped
onto the elevator with me; my hair swept out of its tornado into a
professional ponytail, when he said with full charm, “Now this look
could stop traffic!” Yet, I could only mumble a feeble thank you and
our dialogue ended.
Why couldn’t I have met Gregory more glamorously than slipping and
embarrassing myself in front of him? He could have caught my eye from
across the room, glided over with two flutes of champagne, asked me to
dance.
I smiled at my mental image of a more perfect meeting.
As Joe drove along the busy streets of San Francisco, I was
awestruck by the beauty of the city at night. Its cosmopolitan
atmosphere seemed to intimidate Joe, so we rarely ventured
downtown, but I craved more time in its vibrancy and pictured
myself living in the heart of it one day.
Gleaming headlights from the busy streets illuminated the
distinctive architecture of the buildings. Classic, independent
storefronts blended with the neon signage of the mass chains that
invaded their unique character. The bright lights disappeared in the
rear window as we drove the curves of the Presidio and approached
the Golden Gate Bridge, beckoned by the towering orange-copper
pillars showered in warm light.
Fog blanketed the darkened bay, masking the familiar lights on
the houseboats I loved to watch rock in silent rhythms, like a forest
of lighted Christmas trees swaying in a gentle wind. The chill of the
glass on my temple, while the heater poured warmth onto my numb
feet from walking long blocks to the parking lot, made me shudder
from the two temperature extremes.
As Joe pulled his truck into my driveway, the headlights
bounced off the trees and fog dense enough to reflect the light. Angst
surged into my gut. I knew he assumed he would be spending the
night, but I had no desire to be near him for even another minute.
Dating Joe after we’d lived together took on a whole new
complexity. He didn’t comprehend how radically our relationship
had changed or act as if we were in peril. It was apparent to me we
weren’t ever going to resurrect anything resembling normalcy in our
relationship considering his nasty nature remained, unfortunately,
intact. Joe was a toxin I no longer wanted in my world.
My relationship with Joe had been at its best when we first
started dating, driven by the chemistry. But it always had fractures.
ANNA RAE ABERLE
Page 18
After my miscarriage, we never achieved any level of comfort again.
There was always an unspoken strain, overly polite, not quite
knowing how to interact with each other.
Our awkwardness reminded me of when my grandmother
came to live with my family the summer before my senior year of
high school. My grandfather died after years of intense medical care
and hospitalizations leaving her with monstrous medical debts and
eventually losing their house. She moved into our basement that my
dad grudgingly carpeted and paneled with the savings he’d wanted
to invest in a new boat. With four girls dripping wet after waterskiing,
transferring greasy tanning oils onto the seats, spilling soda
in the cabin he was ready to trade in our older, well-worn speedboat.
But he was a loyal and responsible provider, so instead he
created a new little home for my grandmother downstairs with the
money ear-marked for a new boat. He made her a comfortable space,
but it wasn’t enough to compensate being stripped of her
independence, forced to live in the basement of her eldest daughter.
My life was so busy. The schedule of a typical high school
senior—with commitments to classes, cheerleading practice,
spending time with friends, going on dates, completing university
admission applications—it was rare for me to be home for dinner or
hanging around on the weekends. When I would run into my
Grandma in the hallway or come home to find her in the living
room, she was like a virtual stranger.
I’d not known her well growing up. We made our annual
summer trip to Montana to visit her every year throughout my
childhood, but until she moved in, I had never spent more than three
or four days around her. Living under our roof, she rebuked my
polite questions to learn more about her and her life when she was
young. After a few failed attempts to get to know her better, I gave
up trying. We never broke through the wall of relating to each other
that often divides generations.
My grandmother detested the basement. “It’s colder than the
old cabin on the farm,” she barked. There were only two tiny
windows that strangled what little light could break through. So
every night she would sneak upstairs to sleep on the sofa, wake
herself before dawn, and creep back down the stairs to the little
prison that had become her new home. And it was her home until
the day she took her last breath in the cold expanse of the basement,
with the particleboard walls and salvage carpeting, amid the
I PREFER THE SUNRISE
Page 19
imperceptible rays of light that just couldn’t reach into the heart of
the room to provide the warmth she demanded. She didn’t want to
be an inconvenience, so she pretended it all suited her just fine.
Just as I pretended with Joe.
Page 20
Page 21
hapter
When I got out of the car, careful not to snag my holiday gown,
Joe followed me to my front door. I fumbled with my keys, unsure
how to give the message I didn’t want him to come i-nside without
having to actually say it. It should have been a simple goodnight, a
bit of nostalgia between two people who used to believe they had a
future.
Even though the depth and meaning of our relationship had
dissolved long ago, Joe tried to press me inside with reckless kisses,
groping at my breasts. I was repulsed. The stench on his breath from
hours of dining on shrimp cocktail, slightly overcooked prime rib,
and a few too many whiskey and Cokes sickened me.
I broke free with an obvious excuse to just get him to leave.
“Joe, I don’t feel to great after all the rich food I ate. Plus, I really
have to finish unpacking tomorrow.”
Just those few simple words sent him off angrily, the door
slamming in his wake, leaving me alone in my empty, but expansive
cottage. I worried when Joe’s temper flared, fearing one day I might
be a target, but it had never come to that. I didn’t miss worrying
about stepping on land mines around Joe since I’d moved out.
I was tired from the long party, but loved the feel of the fabric
of my gown, velvety and fluid against my skin, not wanting to take
it off. But I’d kicked off my painful sandals immediately inside my
front door. I found myself unusually excited to share the story about
the unbelievable party, and especially about meeting Gregory, with
Constance. I glanced out the front window to check if her lights
might be on. She was always up later than me every other night, so it
was just my bad luck she wasn’t.
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I convinced myself te temperature outside might be bearable for
one last glass of wine on the deck. I wrapped the throw from the
couch around me, clumsily balancing my wineglass as I fumbled
with the doorknob, wedged the door open with my elbow, and
slipped outside. The brisk, cold air shocked my throat, but I was
determined to enjoy what I could of the remaining night. I settled
into the sloping Adirondack lounger and wished I‘d thrown on a hat
even though my stylist would shame me for ruining his curl
creation.
It took barely minutes to admit to myself the cold was
intolerable, so I shuffled back inside. As a poor substitute for the
starlit night, I lit a few scattered candles in the living room, turned
on some soothing music, and reclined on one of the love seats.
Building a fire seemed too much effort, even though my cold body
was thirsting for heat. My Rocky Mountain upbringing was no
match for the cold in San Francisco. The arctic air blowing in from
the ocean seas was colder to me compared to the arid storms in
Denver. Even after a year, I still hadn’t fully acclimated to the
Northern California climate.
Watching the flickering candles, my thoughts shifted to
Gregory again. I struggled to figure out the first time I’d seen him,
not even sure why it mattered. There had been so many times – in
the building’s workout center, waiting in line at the coffee café or the
sandwich shop around the corner – but mostly I remembered
standing next to him as we waited to cross the street toward our
building. I kept going backward in my memories to trace back to the
first time I’d ever seen Gregory until I could isolate the very day in
the past.
It was a gloomy morning sometime during my first few weeks
at the magazine. Billowing clouds swirled overhead, threatening to
burst open at any moment as I waited at the crowded corner with
other bundled up business people to cross the intersection. Stiffly
buttoned up in my heavy winter coat over my shirt and blazer, the
layers were paralyzing as I mentally summoned the light to change
to green to get out of the cold.
Gregory stood on my left. I was instantly attracted to him as I
watched him coming toward me as we approached the corner from
opposite directions. He was tall and solid, grasping his bike with one
strong, gloved hand and holding a newspaper with the other. He
was in biking gear but it was still somehow clear he was a
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professional who belonged in the throng of more conventionally
dressed workers. When the light changed to green, Gregory moved
along with the group of us, across the wide street but he remained
preoccupied, engrossed in his newspaper. He fell behind us, out of
view, until a car turned sharply and honked, startling us all. He was
nearly hit, but he just shrugged it off and continued walking. My
heartbeat was still fluttering wildly from the near miss when
Gregory, newspaper tucked under his arm, quickened his pace to
move in front of me to swing open the massive frosted glass front
door of our office for me and then slipped in behind me.
The memory inexplicably disturbed me. I got up from the love
seat to refill my wineglass. As I poured the deep mahogany Pinot
Noir, I glanced around my cozy cottage. Joe helped me find it even
though it had been a less than happy compromise to our dilemma of
conflicting geographies of our jobs. My position at the magazine
required me to be in the heart of San Francisco, while his job took
him further north, sometimes as far as Napa and Sonoma. Yet it
turned out to be a fortuitous dilemma, as it deflected the focus off
the reality our relationship had died and eased us into separating.
A year earlier, Joe and I had moved from Colorado to Santa
Rosa, about forty miles north of San Francisco, where his company
had sent him to head up a major building project. The move went
relatively smoothly, until Joe’s dad passed away unexpectedly right
before we left, causing obvious disruption in finalizing all our
arrangements. To lessen our stress with finding an apartment while
dealing with the time and expense of his funeral preparations, Joe
decided we would temporarily move in with Joe’s supervisor, Geoff,
and his wife, Angie.
When we first moved in with them, it was an unpleasant eyeopening.
Joe plowed into work and wasn’t home a lot, trying to
shelve his grief, while I was bombarded all at once with too many
bewildering new situations. I’d lived on my own ever since I
graduated college, so it was disorienting to live in someone else’s
house. I had met Geoff and Angie only once, at a barbecue in
Colorado when Joe and I first started dating. Geoff and Angie had
invited Joe to the barbecue to celebrate the new contracts their
company was getting from California. At the time, none of us had
any idea the new business would lead us all to move there or
imagined we would eventually all be sharing the same living space.
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Convenience aside, from the first day Joe and I moved into
Geoff and Angie’s house, I perceived myself as an intruder. Neither
of them were overly accommodating or hospitable. We were more or
less left to fend for ourselves. They didn’t make any effort to make
us feel more comfortable, not even offering us space in the pantry or
refrigerator for our groceries or a shelf for our laundry supplies, so
we kept most of our things out on the grungy worktable in the
garage. I quickly tired of running out to the dark garage for what I
needed and constantly felt like an unwanted guest.
From the very beginning, I begged Joe to get our own place, but
even the listing prices of the smallest townhouses in the worst
neighborhoods were astronomical. Joe wouldn’t budge until we
could buy instead of rent. He put on a front it didn’t bother him and
was much more tolerant about it than me, yet an undercurrent of
anger from him seeped out at times.
I never knew if it was humiliation he wasn’t able to afford the
bare essential of putting a roof over our head, or if it was from the
lingering guilt he still felt about my miscarriage. We hadn’t been
able to connect on a deeply emotional level our entire relationship,
but since the pivotal day of losing my baby it magnified. Yet, the
roots of our disconnection entrenched even deeper when his father
died, with the guilt of our losses being the concrete that cemented us
in our dismal relationship.
I failed to conceal my dissatisfaction with how we lived. I
cringed every time Joe spent an extra dollar on something needless,
counting every dime he spent as the number of days longer we
would be at the mercy of Geoff and Angie, tallying the time it would
keep us tethered to a life less than fulfilling. The year trickled past
before my very eyes.
Getting the job offer from the magazine finally gave me a veiled
excuse to separate from Joe, making it less confrontational since I
could mask the real reason I wanted to move out. Joe and I spent a
full day searching rental after rental, not finding anything I could
afford or acceptable to live in.
I heard vindication creep into his voice when he said, “How is it
possible you think you can find a place to afford on your own?”
But I wasn’t looking for the home of my dreams to share with
my fiancé. I just needed a small space to escape to and invest my
energies in figuring out a new direction for myself. A new direction
away from Joe.
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A tiny, cramped studio apartment in Marin, a few blocks from
the water’s edge on the bay, seemed the most promising despite an
overwhelming odor, part mold, part something indescribable and
objectionable. Arguing in the truck as we headed back toward
Highway 101 about which rental was the best option, I saw a ’For
Rent’ sign hanging in front of a beautiful property whiz past as Joe
sped through the winding redwood corridor. I turned in my seat to
see the house tucked deep into the redwoods and asked him to turn
back. Joe was so angry I hadn’t noticed it before we passed it, he
almost wouldn’t turn around.
I persisted until he finally thrust the truck into a turnout,
shoved the gear into reverse, spinning gravel from the wheels, and
careened back onto the road where an oncoming car nearly collided
with us. The driver spewed a few accusations against Joe, who
returned them with equal velocity, even though he caused the nearmiss
accident. His anger amplified when we couldn’t find it
backtracking.
“I’m sorry. The sign was nearly invisible among the trees,” I
pleaded apologetically as we retraced our route a second time until I
spotted the property with the sign again.
“Which one is this now? I can’t keep them straight anymore,”
he griped.
“This isn’t any of the ones we’d arranged to see. I just saw it
when we drove past.”
“Oh great! So we have no idea how much the rent is? This
ought to be another goose chase,” he said with no effort to disguise
his frustration.
“I don’t know. I have a really good feeling about this.”
Joe pulled into a driveway carpeted with fallen branches and
redwood buttons. The low-hanging branches, like an embrace,
arched over a massive brown house, nearly indiscernible against the
deep color of the redwoods. A large deck ran the length of the front
of the house.
“I doubt anyone’s here,” Joe said, always willing to give up too
quickly.
“Let’s just see,” I replied as I bounded out of the truck and
rushed to the door. My gentle knock went unanswered.
“I told you,” Joe said loudly, still in the driver’s seat. He got
pleasure whenever he was right, and sometimes, from my
disappointment.
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“Well, it’s simply spectacular,” I replied, not letting his disdain
dampen my interest as I stepped backward and surveyed the full
house.
“Which means you can’t afford it. Let’s go,” he said, his words
laced with impatience.
“Maybe they’re around back,” I said, ignoring his comment. I
followed a worn path leading away from the front door, around the
side of the house. The footpath was makeshift, unpaved or bordered,
merely developed from what must have been years of footsteps
trampling it back and forth. It paralleled a gravel driveway rutted by
car wheels.
The ground sloped steeply, and when I rounded the corner of
the house, I saw a small cottage where a woman was dragging a
thick, oversized wood lounge chair across a flat rectangular deck in
the expanse between the two structures. Once she positioned the
chair to her satisfaction, she turned as I approached her.
“Hello there,” she said as she attempted to brush a tangle of
hair from her eyes with the back of her hand, but instead it stuck out
at a strange angle.
“Hello. We saw the For Rent sign up on the road,” I said.
“We?” she asked.
I glanced over my shoulder and saw Joe hadn’t followed me. “Yes.
My fiancé. He didn’t think anyone was here,” I explained.
“I am at that,” she said.
The woman was squinting as the fall sun glazed my back. There
had been little rain that fall, but humidity still hung heavy in the air.
“That’s great you have a fiancé. The couple that lived here just
got married. This house has great relationship vibes.” She smiled
warmly.
“It would just be me actually,” I stammered.
“I thought you said you had a fiancé?” She seemed confused.
“I do. It’s just that I got this new job, and we’re trying to find a
place where I won’t be too far from him. We’re still working things
out and…it’s just rather complicated really.” I didn’t want her to
probe further.
“I understand. Let me show you the cottage.” She waved me
toward the entry. I marched across the deck, propelled by an
unknown excitement.
As we walked toward the door of the cottage, she extended her
hand and said, “I’m Constance.”
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Constance then swung the front door open to an oversized,
bright rectangular room with a high, sloping ceiling. It was a small
but magnificent space. There was a railing along the length of the
room, splitting the area in half. Other than an expansive bank of
windows along the opposite wall, from the doorway I couldn’t see
what lay below. To my right, over a half-wall partition, was a small
reading area framed by a wood-burning fireplace with rock crawling
over the entire wall. A deep brown and coral patterned easy chair,
with a sturdy, richly upholstered ottoman, was tucked comfortably
into the alcove. Arched over the reading chair was a brushed nickel
floor lamp.
The main room was small, but conversationally arranged with
two small love seats situated facing each other. Between them was a
coffee table with a cascading grouping of candles. Off to the left was
a small, but long kitchen with two solid walls of deep sage green
countertop. Leading off the entry to the kitchen was a U-shaped
stairway leading down to the lower area.
It was a charming cottage with welcoming yet lush furnishings.
The stairs creaked warmly as we descended into a bedroom whose
ceiling was the open space visible from upstairs. Just to the right of
the stairs was the entry to a huge closet with racks and built-in
shelves. The closet was designed to make use of the various twists
and turns underneath the stairway for shoes and baskets for
accessories.
Across from the expansive closet, I peeked into an ample
bathroom. The ivory floor tile was streaked with deep brown swirls
that matched the color of the plush chocolate floor rugs and towels.
The light fixtures were large and ornate since there were no
windows to provide natural light. Tiled steps, bordered by two
stucco vases, led up to an oversized shower stall with an etched glass
door. Even the bathroom had an understated elegance to it.
The majority of the lower level was devoted to the bedroom,
which was the most impressive space. The floors were covered with
thick carpeting the color of wheat with rust, navy, and charcoal
flecks. Rich mahogany fabric was draped down the far wall as a
backdrop for a king-sized platform bed covered in a thick, buttery
gold bedspread and an assortment of pillows in the same hues of
various reds and golds. On the opposing wall was a series of
shelving units. Hanging over them was an abstract painting, easily
eight feet high, lifting all the color hues from the room into a
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cohesive package. The décor was luxurious, but not overdone,
generating a strangely serene and soothing ambience.
A voice bellowed through the house. Joe had finally sauntered
down to find us. He bounded down the stairs and whistled long and
slowly when he saw the grand bedroom. “I think we’re definitely
out of this price range.”
“You may be surprised,” Constance replied. “Both of these
houses are an inheritance. I just charge enough to cover the property
tax and the cost to keep the lights on and the water running.” She
threw a wink my way. “Even though, I am extremely discerning
about who I let live here. But in all seriousness,” she finished, “I have
an incredible gift with these properties, so years ago I decided
instead of trying to profit from the rent, I should give back and make
this an affordable option for young professionals who are trying to
just make a go of it out here. So far, it’s paid off in far more
important ways for me than monetary.”
She paused for effect and asked, “So? Are you interested?”
“I’ll take it,” I blurted without even a glance at Joe. I moved in
the following weekend.
In a tantrum I was sure he devised as a distraction - a likely
avoidance of dealing with my departure - Joe refused to help on the
day of my move, leaving me to handle it all by myself. It really
didn’t come as a shock and I wondered how long in advance he’d
planned his diversion. Agitated I wouldn’t have any help, there were
absolutely no tears in my eyes as I drove away more confident in the
decision than ever.
It was a brave and official first step away from Joe. The days of
feeling like an intruder were over. I craved the solitude and luxury
of having my own place, my own rules, my freedom like what I had
back home in my little apartment by the park in Colorado. Before
Joe.
Luckily for me, Constance was in the cottage when I arrived,
giving it a final cleaning.
“You’re here!” she exclaimed as she flung the door open for me
with a grand flourish. “These belong to you now!” she sang out as
she dangled the keys seductively for me to snatch from her fingers.
A huge bouquet of fresh flowers sat on the front table, and even
in the large expanse of the cottage, they emanated a strong,
welcoming fragrance.
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Constance was gracious and helped me hoist boxes out of my
car without a single question about why Joe wasn’t there to help me.
We worked until Constance disappeared up the lane to her house
and returned with sandwiches and lemonade which we ate slowly in
the lukewarm sunshine on the sloping deck chairs. After a relaxing
lunch, we worked for a few hours longer, but mostly only managed
to rearrange the bulging boxes rather than empty any of them. There
was a brilliant sunset shimmering pink and red hues onto the
hillsides as I drove back north for a second carload. The brisk fall air
rushed in through the sunroof as I sang at the top of my lungs to
songs whether I knew the lyrics or not.
Joe was sulking when I returned. After a long day of strenuous
work, I didn’t have any patience for his attitude. His selfishness
created our situation. He was the reason I was in California in the
first place and it angered me he acted absolved of any responsibility.
As I showered, I felt more tense instead of relaxed. We hadn’t
made any plans for the evening, but I supposed an unceremonious
night was more appropriate. Why would we mark our last night of
living together with any type of celebration?
After I showered the sweat and grime off my body, I dressed
and joined Joe in the kitchen. He was still pouting and snapped at
me with every suggestion I offered for dinner. For once, I let him
push me to the brink of anger.
“Then make your own damn dinner. You will not treat me like
this,” I yelled at him, punctuating my message by throwing some
pages of recipes across the kitchen island at him. His startled look
was priceless. I stormed out of the kitchen, snatched up my purse
and car keys, and headed toward the front door.
“Where the hell do you think you’re going?” he yelled as he
intercepted me. Luckily, Geoff and Angie were within earshot. Their
proximity inspired my courage yet kept his temper in check.
“I just really need to get away from you right now,” I
whispered harshly. “I don’t want to be around you. I don’t want to
look at you. And I especially don’t want to come back here and sleep
in the same bed with you.”
His face showed the sting of my venom. I flung the front door
open and left him stranded in the entryway, stripped of the power
he once held over me. I marched to my car and threw my bag into
the front seat with such force all the contents spilled out onto the seat
and floorboards.
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“Idiot!” I screamed at myself as I jammed my foot on the gas
pedal to eject my car from that hated house. I just kept screaming the
word at the top of my lungs in the soundproof cage of my car.
Instead of driving toward town, I slid onto the highway on-ramp,
gaining speed to propel myself farther and farther away. I had no
idea where I was going. I had the cottage keys, so there was no
reason I couldn’t go there, but I didn’t have my overnight bag, so
practicality won. There wasn’t another escape in any of the exits I
zipped past. My cell phone rattled on the seat next to me, signaling
Joe’s frantic calls.
Achy and weary from the long day of moving, and with more
to accomplish the following day, my brief act of defiance dwindled
with the realization I had another long day of hoisting boxes into
and out of my trunk. Dejected, I slowed onto the next off-ramp in
San Rafael. A pinch of anger made me consider staying out until
after midnight, but I made a compromise with myself. After a
leisurely dinner alone, I could be gone just long enough to make Joe
worry. With the fourth buzz of my cell phone, I knew I’d already
begun to succeed with my goal. Heading back north on the 101
freeway, I was content with my compromise. Joe liked to go to the
same restaurants time after time, so I’d seen plenty I was interested
in trying along Mendocino Avenue. I pointed my car toward
downtown Santa Rosa while I pressed the red button on my cell
phone to silence it for the remainder of the night. I walked along a
few blocks, scanning quite a few menus, before I chose a little Italian
café. I ordered a carafe of Chianti and splurged on shrimp scaloppini
to celebrate my escape from my dismal little life.
I expected it to feel strange to be dining alone, but I liked being
a mystery to the other diners and wondered what stories they might
be creating in their minds about the pretty young girl who appeared
quite happy to be dining alone. After a filling and leisurely dinner, I
headed back to Geoff and Angie’s house. The front porch and
driveway lights were on when I pulled up in front of the house, but
the interior lights were dark. I used slow, deliberate motions to not
make any noise as I felt my way along the dark walls to our
bathroom. I brushed my teeth as quietly as possible, took a quick
washcloth to my face, and grabbed my nightgown from the hook
behind the door. True to my word about not wanting to sleep in the
same bed with him, I groped my way toward the front room. I didn’t
expect to be comfortable sleeping on the couch, but after just a few
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minutes amid the cushiony pillows and the warm throw blanket, I
fell into a deep sleep.
I woke before everyone else the next morning to cover evidence
I’d slept on the couch. With renewed excitement, I brewed a full pot
of coffee for the household one last time. I woke Joe with a satisfied
thud of the last drawer I emptied.
The only gesture Joe could muster that final morning was to
help me load the last of my boxes into my car. But he couldn’t resist
a few well-placed abrasive comments about my decision to take the
job at the magazine and desert him. I thought of all the things I
should have hurled back during my drive to my new home on
Paradise Drive, and even once grabbed my cell phone, but I didn’t
want anything to cast a shadow across my positive spirits.
I was disappointed Constance wasn’t at the cottage when I
arrived. I was grateful for how quickly we were establishing a
friendship. Making new friends had been easy for me before Joe. I let
him become my central focus, especially since my miscarriage, to the
exclusion of others. I’d lost touch with most of my girlfriends back
home and longed for a connection with a female again. It came
naturally for me to talk to women, probably because of my sisters.
One girlfriend in college said I had “the energy of an angel” that
drew people to me. I felt it was the direct opposite. I was drawn to
people who brought energy into my life.
I’d been more outgoing since adulthood with numerous friends,
overcompensation from being a shy, withdrawn young girl in grade
school. I never felt attractive when I was young. Always hiding my
chubby frame with plain, neutral oversized dresses and growing a
lengthy mane of honey waves to obscure my thick glasses, I
deflected attention away from my appearance by creating a shell.
As the years passed, I went through a metamorphosis. The first
layer peeled off when I lost weight in seventh grade after I joined the
volleyball team. Among my teammates I felt less unattractive,
finding an appealing feature; my complexion, not ravaged by acne
like most of them. I was also better than I expected in sports,
developing a solid athleticism. It gave me the courage to water-ski
with my sisters the following summer, and by the end of the year, I’d
lost over thirty-five pounds and felt better than ever.
For my sixteenth birthday, my parents surprised me with an
appointment to get contact lenses, which led to new compliments
about my eyes almost daily. Those compliments gave me confidence
ANNA RAE ABERLE
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to get my hair cut in a more flattering style, away from my face.
Every semester brought about a new physical change. But it was
well into high school before I found my social skills, and once I did,
my network of friends exploded. Until I met Joe.
On my second day moving into the cottage, I collapsed on the
love seat after hauling the last box out of my trunk. I wished I’d
stopped at the grocery store because an ice-cold drink sounded very
appealing at the moment.
As if on cue, I heard a loud knock on the door, with no wait for
a response, followed by a shrill, “Are you ready for a Bloody Mary,
girlfriend? We’ve got to celebrate!”
I thought Constance meant celebrate the completion of my
move, until she squealed she’d just been appointed to design and
produce the costumes for a major ballet production. I protested,
gesturing to the mounting boxes.
“I’ll help you when we get back. You’ll be unpacked and
situated by the end of the day. I promise.”
Her guarantee was convincing.
We drove in her convertible, our hair flying in all directions,
enjoying the magical landscape of crystal-and-sapphire blue waves
rippling in the bay. We followed the water’s edge into Tiburon and
found a quaint bar.
By the second round of cocktails, Constance and I were giggling
and laughing like old friends.
“I am so happy for you.” I raised my glass to toast to her
success.
“Happy? Hell, this is my one greatest dream come true! You
should be overcome with joy like I am!” She laughed loudly and
drew a few looks our way.
“Well, of course I am! And a touch envious. I’m not even sure
what my one greatest dream is. I would love to see your designs. I
wish I could draw.”
“I don’t just draw. I create! Certainly there is something you do
well, isn’t there?” Constance asked.
I wasn’t sure there was.
“I used to write a lot,” I offered.
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“Well, see, there you go then. What did you write about?” She
seemed genuinely intrigued.
“Mostly about people, I guess. I used to love to write about how
people interact and the psychology behind their behaviors. My
college professors always encouraged me to write based upon on my
papers. I don’t really have time for it anymore. My job is so
extremely hectic and requires a lot of long hours. I really don’t have
any energy left to do anything I enjoy outside the office.”
“Then we’ve got to get you a new job!” she said with gusto.
She told me more about her phenomenal contract, her elation
evident in her words and animated gestures, calling attention our
way. Constance responded to the strange looks with gracious
acknowledgement and announced, “Just celebrating a major life’s
dream come true.” Her style was so charming, people in the bar
raised their glasses to her with wishes for her success, and a few
even crossed over to our table to toast to her future in the theater.
Constance was a rare and grounded woman. Even though she
was not what most would call classically beautiful, she was striking
and strode confidently. Her facial attributes were prominent, glossy,
thick auburn hair framed her brown eyes with emerald speckles and
full, wide lips, while abundant freckles commandeered her entire
face and marched down her neck and chest.
Her best feature wasn’t physical, but her energy; a kind of
energy I lacked, zapped during my tumultuous saga with Joe. I was
filled with exhilaration I would have Constance’s energy
surrounding me and hoped like hell her energy would draw out my
own again. It was a hope that came true. At least for a short period
of time.
My day with Constance concluded with our good intentions to
go back and finish unpacking boxes at the cottage, but instead we
got completely distracted in my closet in a box of discards Constance
decided were perfect additions to her wardrobe. In reciprocation, she
made a quick trip to her house and came back with an armload of
exchanges. We spent the rest of the day trying on “new” clothes for
each other until nearly midnight when I finally fell into bed
exhausted, but so completely satisfied with my decision to move into
the cottage. I slept in near bliss.
I smiled at the memory of those first days knowing Constance
and my wonderful new home, as I swirled my wine slowly in the
glass, fascinated by the reflective patterns from the candles I’d lit
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around the room. It was hard to believe it’d been over six weeks
since I moved in. Yet, in other ways, I couldn’t remember life when I
didn’t live in the cottage. It was a weird confluence of time. My life,
suddenly a whirlwind of new experiences, new friends, new people,
new environments, and a new man to be interested in, was
exhilarating. My former life held no appeal. A glance at the clock
told me I needed to get some sleep. The company party had used up
a lot of my energy. Too tired to even finish the last sips of my wine, I
left the glass on the coffee table. I blew out the candles, but rather
than turn the music off, I just turned it down a few decibels so it
would lull me to sleep.
Downstairs, finally able to rest my head, my mind wouldn’t
cooperate. Passionate visions of Gregory intruded. I imagined how
his hands would feel against my skin. I imagined his scent and the
warmth of his skin. My imagination was powerful, able to mimic the
sensation of his body against mine, the heat of his lips pressed
against mine. Desiring me. Wanting me. As much as I for him. I
created a mental image of our bodies, naked in wild abandon,
thirsting for each other, insatiable. I was overcome with an
unimaginable attraction in my soul that spoke to me in words I
could not comprehend.
Those images lulled me into a brief, blissful sleep, until the
faintest glimmer of light peeked through the windows overhead. I’d
wrestled sleep until sunrise. Erotic pictures I conjured of myself with
Gregory battled with my fears our flirtation would be a lost memory
for him when Monday came. I wanted to focus solely on the magical
and monumental surge in my heart. I centered on that feeling until I
slept the final hours until daybreak.
It certainly never crossed my mind how little time I would have
Gregory in my life.
Page 35
hapter
I woke slowly the next morning, walking out of my dreams,
riding the rift between the imaginary and reality. It seemed contrary,
but I’d finally fallen asleep just as the hazy light of the sun was
rising. I slipped into a short, peaceful dream, but then I cascaded into
a much darker place. Like most dreams, the details were elusive, but
I woke with a palpable feeling of dread. I felt groggy, and a faint
ache pulsed above my eyes—part hangover from my drinks at the
holiday party, but part lack of sleep. I puttered around the kitchen,
making a strong pot of coffee. Waiting for it to brew, I had to dig
through a few boxes before I found the one the aspirin was packed
in. By the time I was back upstairs, thankful the coffee was ready, I
still hadn’t remembered the specifics of my dream, but it was
gnawing at my gut. I grabbed the newspaper off the porch and
ducked back inside. Even though it was a rare sunny morning for
December, I opted for the reading nook, since the bright sun was too
much until the aspirin and coffee started to do their magic.
I decided my dream must have been about Joe. The bothersome
feeling brewing in my belly felt too similar to emotions he provoked
in me. Or possibly it was guilt thrusting into me for not being
truthful with so many people about leaving Joe. It had been getting
harder and harder to avoid the truth about our breakup. When I
moved to the cottage, I’d given the impression to my family and
friends we were both moving there. I’d even given careful attention
when recording my voice-mail message and slipped in the plural
pronoun: “We’re not at home right now.”
Constance even commented about it, and I just shrugged it off
that I didn’t want it to be apparent to callers I lived alone. But the
deception needed to end eventually.
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I hadn’t revealed to anyone back home the full truth about our
broken engagement because it was another major failure in my life.
It wasn’t something I was terribly anxious to proclaim. They had all
seen me go through my hardship of losing the baby. I feared
disappointing my parents with yet another phase of upheaval. My
sisters and I were not particularly close because of our age
differences, but they were all in happy marriages and never let up on
their advocacy on getting a ring on my finger. They just seemed to
figure after the miscarriage we would stay together.
Their view was very different from my girlfriends’ who viewed
losing the baby as a godsend, saying we were too young anyway
and we’d be able to have a baby later, when the time was right. My
girlfriends viewed Joe as the perfect man—they never saw a glimpse
of his nasty tendencies that bubbled to the surface —so they were the
least likely to believe he had such a temper. I procrastinated for
weeks returning their calls. When I did respond, I was full of excuses
for my lack of communication and exaggerations about my fabulous
life in California.
With the distance as my shield of secrecy, it was incredibly easy
to disguise that we’d called the wedding off indefinitely. One
thousand miles was an adequate buffer between fact and fiction.
Over the phone lines, with no eye-to-eye contact to give me guilt
about my lies, I constructed convenient excuses about why we were
delaying our wedding date instead of admitting my hesitancy to
ever commit to a future date. Not having enough money for an
extravagant honeymoon was the most believable excuse I conjured
up, so I stuck with it. Not a single person knew the baby we lost, and
the circumstances leading up to it, created such a chasm between Joe
and me. Any pretext sounded better than revealing the truth about
how our relationship had deteriorated.
Joe and had I found some comfortable similarities early on. We
were each equally complacent in jobs that didn’t demand ridiculous
hours or travel. My college boyfriend, Steve, had been so driven by
his ambition it left little precious time to enjoy each other. I was
devastated when he chose his career over me and left Colorado just
days after his graduation. I still had a year to complete my degree, so
moving to Chicago with him hadn’t been an option. Even on a failed
weekend visit to investigate moving out to be closer to him after my
graduation, Steve was constantly preoccupied by his work, and I
vowed to never be second to a man’s job. Joe wasn’t consumed by
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his work, which pleased me immensely. He was just doing whatever
it took to get by, and I didn’t have more specific focus or aspiration
myself. My position as an optometry office manager was sustaining
me even though it was mundane and provided absolutely zero
intellectual stimulation. I’d seen the opposite end of the spectrum,
which wasn’t any more appealing.
I graduated from college after an arduous five years. As the
names of the summa cum laude and magna cum laude were
announced, I felt briefly inadequate. I was the youngest, but the first
in my family to graduate from college, and my parents were
overcome with relief. They did the best they knew how, giving us
girls all the opportunities they could afford, unprepared to learn that
living in a small college town bred more apathy than aspiration.
A college graduate, still uncertain of my direction, I was
floundering with job prospects. With my love of books, I attained a
literature degree, but had no concept of how I would use it in the
working world or what career calling I might follow. Especially in a
small college town, other than newspaper or article writing, there
was little demand for literary skills. Teaching required additional
education and certification, and I was not about to sign up for even
one more syllabus.
By fall, frustrated with my lack of progress finding work, my
mother sent me to interview at her eye doctor’s office. It wasn’t at all
in the scope of what I saw myself doing, but in her words, “At least
it will give you some income while you make the big decisions about
your future.” I worried going into the interview what questions
might be asked about why I wasn’t searching for a job to make use of
my English degree, but that trail of questions never came up. I was
grateful. So when her optometrist, Dr. Craig, offered me the position,
I was equally grateful and accepted it without hesitation. He paid me
a reasonable salary, offered all the training I needed to succeed, and
provided a very low-stress work environment.
Free from the demands of textbooks, assignments, and finals, I
sought to minimize, not increase the commitments on me. An
uncomplicated life was my goal. Balancing classes and working two
jobs to supplement my tuition had taken a toll, so the easy pace of
Dr. Craig’s office was the perfect antidote to the frenzy I’d lived
during college. Despite my boring work in Dr. Craig’s practice, I
managed an entertaining social life in that little college town.
Boredom at work gave me the energy for after hours. Weekdays,
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weeknights, it didn’t matter. Whether I was meeting friends for
dinner and drinks, or looking forward to a series of dates over the
weekend, socializing was the driving force in my life. The thrust of
my focus for five years in college had been skewed toward studying
and classes. Very rarely did I venture out to parties, attend the
football or basketball games, or participate in most collegiate events.
As far as I was concerned, the minute my fingers grasped my
diploma, life became about making up for lost time.
Spring and summer always brought a surge of wedding
invitations, from both high school and college classmates, to my
mailbox, and the inevitable requests to be a part of the wedding
party. It was at one of the more elegant receptions in my hometown
country club where I met Joe.
I was a bridesmaid in a Valentine’s Day wedding, when the
bride’s brother mentioned he had a friend coming to the reception
who he wanted to introduce me to. Just after the cutting of the cake, I
was approached by a very handsome man who I ‘d noticed staring at
me blatantly throughout the reception.
“Let’s dance,” he offered, not as a question, but a command, as
he took my arm sheathed in sheer lilac chiffon, the unfortunate,
unflattering shade chosen by the bride, and steered me to the dance
floor just a few steps away from the head table. He surprised me
with his sensual rhythm, but we stopped dead as the song ended just
a minute into our dance. Then the band broke into a slower, more
melodic strain of music as the stranger stepped close to me, taking
my arms and wrapping them around his waist as he slung his arms
over my shoulders. His weight seemed heavy and obtrusive. I felt
fragile under his bulk.
“I normally don’t slow dance with men I don’t know,” I said.
“If that weren’t so ridiculous, it might sound romantic,” he said
with the slightest trace of annoyance.
I realized his words were slightly slurred and caught the whiff
of a new scent. It was the first time I’d smelled whiskey on a man’s
breath. My own father rarely drank. The men I dated were beer
drinkers; hard liquor was oddly attractive, because it suddenly
seemed quite adult. Joe was slumped onto me, but an excitement
riveted through my blood.
We danced through the song and another slow melody, our
hips locked in sultry rhythm, my chest crushed into his sport jacket.
When Joe escorted me from the dance floor, I felt him sway.
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Instead of heading back to his group, he pulled his chair up to
the front table next to me, earning a disapproving look from the new
bride and groom. Joe disappeared briefly until he reappeared at my
elbow with a fresh whiskey and Coke, which he guzzled as I asked
him questions to learn more about my affectionate but inebriated
admirer. He seemed slightly agitated by anything I asked, diverting
my questions by making wiseass remarks about the band members.
In small spurts of conversation, I learned Joe worked for a
custom homebuilder as a project supervisor. He’d been there nearly
five years, having worked summers while he was in high school and
going full-time once he graduated. He seemed uninterested in
divulging more information about himself, and I had equal success
with other topics, such as his family, his hobbies, and other obvious
choices of questions.
One thing quickly apparent was Joe liked his booze. He made
three trips to the bar before I even finished one drink. The more he
drank, the more obnoxious he became. He was overly quizzical
about why I wasn’t in a relationship. I didn’t want to delve into my
situation with Steve, so I attributed being single to the craziness of
college and working two jobs. He finally badgered the truth out of
me. Joe wouldn’t believe my ex-boyfriend had moved to Chicago,
leaving me behind. He remained convinced about his own truth, not
mine. I was offended he thought me capable of contriving a charade
about being single when I wasn’t.
The drunker Joe got, the more looks I shot over to the other
groomsmen, hoping they would take action to intercept if things got
ugly. Finally, Joe got up to get yet another drink, when he stumbled,
lost his balance, and fell flat on his face. There was a flurry of blackand-
white formal wear as his buddies raced to pick him up just as
the bride’s father came over to investigate. Joe stood easily as his
friends swung his arms over their shoulders and walked him out to
the country club lobby under the guarded eyes of the men of the
bridal party.
I was taken completely off guard when I received a call from Joe
the following night. He seemed so contrite when we spoke.
“I hope you don’t mind, but I weaseled my way into getting
your phone number from the bride so I could call and apologize in
person. But I expect she’ll never talk to me again having called her
on the first day of their honeymoon”
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Joe convinced me to give him a second chance even though I
was tempted not to. The image of him falling down at the reception
was rather distasteful. But he assured me it was uncharacteristic for
him and gave all the appropriate excuses. I found myself wildly
attracted to him, which won out over my better judgment.
“You know how it is. You work a long week, and you just
overindulge,” he rationalized.
I didn’t know how it was. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d
drank to excess.
“You meet a gorgeous woman,” he rambled on, “she makes you
nervous, and you drink a little faster to loosen up.”
I interjected, “I hope you won’t always need to drink to feel
comfortable around me.”
“No. I didn’t mean that. I don’t know what I mean. It’s just that
I’m attracted to you, and I screwed up. Don’t let one night of my bad
judgment affect your perception of me. I’m not a bad guy. I just had
a bad night you happened to see. Can’t we start fresh?”
He was so persistent, I agreed to see him the following night.
We went out for dinner. Conversation was somewhat strained,
clouded by his embarrassment from the wedding reception, yet, I
was totally attracted to him. Joe had strong hands and a sturdy,
sculpted body from years of construction work. His hazel eyes were
deeply set, with thick, bushy eyebrows, and his hair was the color of
nougat, neither too blond nor too brown. He wore a silver ring on
his right ring finger and a thick silver chain on his wrist. Jewelry on a
man, other than a wedding ring on my father, was a foreign notion
to me and simply added to the attraction. He was ruggedly
handsome, and more than once, I caught other women staring at
him.
I wasn’t pleased when he ordered a whiskey and Coke before
dinner, and two more throughout the course of the meal, but he
didn’t slur or fall down like he had at the reception. During our
meal, a light snow flickered against the windowpane of our booth.
By the time the waiter delivered our check, hardened flakes were
pelting the streets and sidewalks. The temperature had dropped to a
blistering chill that invaded our senses the minute we stepped
outside, where stinging eyes, frigid earlobes and nostrils, accosted us
within seconds. I’d only worn a light jacket, so Joe wrapped me in
his arms.
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“You should go back inside. This cold is brutal. I’ll go get the
truck.”
With one deft movement, I was back in the warmth and
satisfying aromas of the restaurant. A few minutes later, he pulled
up to the curb and motioned me out to the truck. I hopped in to the
blast of forced heat from the vents diminished the constricting cold.
Sheets of snow blurred the roadways, the lanes indistinguishable as
Joe drove cautiously in the midst of the February blizzard. The drive
to my house would normally have taken fifteen minutes, but took us
nearly an hour in the blizzard. Once we arrived, I was conflicted
about letting Joe continue his drive home. Reluctantly, I suggested
he come in, knowing it was late, and considering the strength of the
storm, indirectly it meant inviting him to spend the night.
“I shouldn’t,” he said as the truck idled. “I need to get on the
road. It will take me at least an hour or more to get back to my
place.”
“What you ‘shouldn’t’ do is try to drive in this blizzard,” I
replied.
It didn’t take more than my one statement to change his mind,
although, I was fairly certain he was happy the storm was altering
the course of the evening. Our hair was plastered with snow in the
few feet between his truck and my front door. While I toweled my
hair dry and changed into warm, dry clothes, Joe built a blazing fire.
It was a sweet gesture, even though the logs were piled higher than
my comfort level as the roaring flames cracked and popped, spewing
ignited bits of pine onto the carpet. Drifts accumulating outside my
windows were impressive while snow continued to billow from the
milky skies. Complicated by intense winds that rattled the pipes, the
storm was the worst I’d experienced. The wind gusts glued white
flakes onto the glass of my windows, prohibiting a better view of the
wintry landscape.
In just a few short hours, the blizzard dumped over eleven
inches of snow. With his truck, Joe probably could have made it
home, but I felt more at ease not having him attempt it. I made some
hot tea, but Joe was only interested in having another drink. I didn’t
have whiskey, and after a bitter face after his first sip, it was clear
wine was a poor substitute for his liquor appetite. We settled on the
floor in front of the fire once it burned down a level.
As we kissed, the liquor on his breath was appetizing. But it
also made him bolder, and it wasn’t long before our passionate
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kisses led him to grope under my sweater. Despite my protests, he
kept trying, until I realized he wasn’t going to stop and told him it
was time for us to go to bed. Separately.
When I brought him some blankets to sleep on the couch, his
displeasure was evident. “I think you have a cruel heart,” he said as
he made a makeshift bed with obvious annoyance.
Sometime well after midnight, I felt Joe slide into bed with me.
“I’ll be good,” he said. “It’s just too damn cold in the living room
when there’s this warm bed right here.”
I didn’t sleep well, conscious at any moment Joe could
overpower me, but he stayed true to his word and didn’t let his
hands wander.
The next morning, the snow continued to fall, and the phone
rang to confirm the office was closed. I made a pot of coffee and
handed the phone to Joe, who called his boss to learn they were also
not working. As Joe showered in the bathroom, I made some
breakfast. It was awkward to have a man I barely knew in my house,
but our amazing chemistry overshadowed my discomfort.
Joe and I spent the day watching old movies on TV and eating
what little food I had in the house. We called to order a pizza, but no
one was sending deliveries out in the whipping blizzard. The snow
stopped around lunchtime, and eventually the street plows came
out.
Just before night fell, Joe said, “I really need to head out. I don’t
think I can stand another night of sleeping next to you and not being
able to touch you. Better to brave it now before it gets dark and
freezes.”
Joe called when he got home over an hour later, insistent to see
me again the coming weekend. I liked his confident control. By the
weekend, the mountains of snow hadn’t melted even an inch.
Paralyzed in subzero temperatures, roads gritty and painfully
rutted, the city was still abnormally quiet. Joe arrived after hearing
the band he wanted us to see cancelled their performance, forcing us
to have another quiet night in. While he was disturbed about the
change in plans, I was thankful to have time alone to get to know
him better. His mood was soured about not seeing the band, yet in
between his complaints about the weather, I managed to engage him
in a little more revealing conversation about himself.
He led a relatively average life, just like me. His parents owned
a small business, he had no brothers, or sisters, came from a small
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family, and generally just did what he could to get by. His outlets
were going to the bars with friends and watching sports. Nothing
spectacular, but also nothing dissuading.
Before long, Joe and I were seeing each other frequently, and
while it wasn’t an earth-shattering love affair, it was easy,
comfortable, and without pressure. Mostly we hung out with one of
our groups of friends, watching football, going to parties at the lake,
or seeing movies. Our relationship proceeded monotonously.
Occasionally I went out with other men, but the magnetism with Joe
always led me back to him. Time dissolved before my very eyes,
until the crisis of my pregnancy, which both solidified yet isolated us
as a couple. Sometimes the bonds of guilt bind tighter than the
bonds of love.
The decision to move away from Colorado was not only a
chance to restore our relationship but also an escape. Joe and I were
still reeling from the catastrophe of losing the baby when his
company got a major contract to build a series of homes in Northern
California.
“Come with me,” he whispered one night as it was coming
close to his departure date.
“I can’t. My whole life is in this town,” I said in resistance.
“What life?” he laughed. “We do the same thing, day after day,
weekend after weekend. It’s completely predictable!”
“You’re right,” I said with resignation. “But my job…” I added
in protest.
“So what? Do you really plan to work in a little doctor’s office
your whole life? You have no future where you’re at.”
The truth stung me as hard as if he‘d slapped me across the
face. While I had spoken of my limitations in my job there, to hear
him put it so bluntly was harsh and hurtful.
Even so, the following Monday, as I drove to the office, I was
even more unmotivated than usual. Dr. Craig had been very
compassionate when I had no direction for myself after graduating
from college. A literature degree was wasted on me, as my tasks
were simply making appointments for his patients, answering their
most benign questions, and drawing a paycheck that barely allowed
me to afford my little apartment near the park. Joe’s words from the
prior night burned through my mind all day long as I stressed about
my stagnation; how I’d not made use of my degree nor established
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any logical plan for my future. By the end of the day, I’d convinced
myself to move to California with Joe.
A decision born entirely out of defiance rather than desire.
Once I told Joe my decision, I saw a resurgence of the
excitement and energy we had when we first started dating. It was
the closest thing to bliss we’d ever experienced as a couple. Holding
hands, not wanting to be apart, we were finally connecting in a new
way.
The week before we left, he pulled me into a jewelry store after
we had brunch downtown with a group of friends who moaned
about our imminent departure.
“What are you doing?” I asked as he steered me toward a long
display case.
“Well, we certainly can’t live together if we’re not planning on
getting married.”
Joe gestured to the long rows of cases. “Which one do you
like?”
My heart sank. The last time we‘d even mentioned marriage
was the early days of elation when I was pregnant. I looked at Joe
with pleading eyes. His version of a proposal was contrary to how I
imagined it would be. It felt completely unnatural. Even though I
refused to choose a ring then, in that way, from that day forward, it
was implied we were getting married. No preparation, no planning,
just one more impetuous act in my entirely off-course life.
Page 45
hapter
Still waiting for my throbbing headache to subside, thinking
about the past with Joe wasn’t helping my situation. I thought how
meeting Gregory at the company party the previous night, while
being there with Joe, so eloquently painted the difference between
the two men. Gregory seemed sophisticated, nearly cosmopolitan,
while Joe was industrious but more approachable. Neither traits
better, I’d gravitated to both of them, but they fell on completely
opposite ends of the spectrum.
But, Joe did have a vice; drinking to excess had been a weekly
ritual for him throughout most of our relationship. The
unpredictability of his patterns was the worst part. Sometimes he
would remain at a constant keel of intoxication. Other weekends, he
was obnoxious and unrelenting in his criticisms or insults, not
satisfied until I was broken to tears. We made up with ravaging sex,
an act of forgiveness, Joe contrite with husky promises it would
never happen again. Until it did happen again. And then again.
Joe had been drinking much less in the months before I moved
out, his silent effort at restoring our relationship. It simultaneously
reduced the frequency of his volatile outbursts. Joe was an ugly
drunk. During the workweek, a few beers every night rarely led to
the belligerence I often endured on his weekend binges. Unable to
gauge his threshold for inebriation, he often quickly toppled from
feeling a buzz to a full-on drunken rant. There was no middle
ground with Joe and his drinking. In our early months, I feared him.
His anger would flare so rapidly, without provocation. Alone or in
public, an innocent comment, a puzzled look, a polite flirtation with
a waiter, or a request to not order the next drink, anything I might
choose to do or say was potential gunpowder for his temper.
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I inventoried our fights with the pieces of broken cocktail
glasses, picture frames, or CD cases, I swept into the garbage every
apologetic morning after. I was diminished by his temper, altering
my behaviors to avoid triggering his. Flashbacks of too many
indistinguishable nights, crumpled on the bathroom floor, sobbing
into my hands, pleading for forgiveness, for another chance, and
finally for the strength to leave Joe, brought a trail of unpleasant
memories along with those images.
It was a dismal life. People often cite their moment of truth, the
straw that broke the camel’s back, their epiphany. It wasn’t like that
for me. The decision wasn’t tethered to a particular occurrence or the
worst fight we ever had. It was more of a crescendo mounting in my
soul. I was drifting further and further from the person I knew I was.
Barriers had been constructed, the lightness was replaced by dread
and worry, the essence of me had been altered, and I feared it might
never return. It was a reckoning within, not a state I could describe
or define.
But it wasn’t possible to just revert to the former Alicia with a
snap of the fingers. My years with Joe couldn’t be shed like the skin
of a reptile. It took contemplation and allowing true, painful
conversations with myself as to how I’d succumbed to a less than
impressive place in my life. Searching for a new job seemed so
innocent, yet became the springboard for my swan dive escape. My
decision to take the job at SportsZone was both subtle and radical in
the same swift effort.
Getting my new job was like a divine intervention. I definitely
did not have the background and experience to be working for one
of the biggest magazine groups in the country. The opportunity
became equally about an amazing new professional path as well as
liberation from a life that threatened to swallow me whole.
Despite solid interviews at the magazines, I convinced myself I
wasn’t going to get the job. Being rejected as a candidate was a
reality I created for myself that was thankfully destroyed when I
received the offer. The HR woman identified herself, extended the
offer, then rattled off the terms before I’d had a chance to start
recording the facts—a start date in two weeks, benefits package,
401(k), the standard two weeks of paid time off. The salary mark
gained my full attention as I wrote the amount on my scratch pad. I
circled it multiple times as she continued her spiel.
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I was ecstatic. Instinctually, I knew not to call Joe. This news
needed to be delivered in person, even though I dreaded the reaction
I would see on his face. Every decision I made that didn’t involve
him, incensed him. He’d been so angry at me for even going to the
interview, nearly implying I should have even asked his permission
before submitting a résumé. Telling him was going to take some
careful placement of words.
I got home late from another day at the nonprofit medical
journal where I worked, exhausted from a frenzied day of urgent
projects, but with an unusual enthusiasm having the job offer at
SportsZone. Geoff and Angie were in the dining room, having their
dinner, while Joe was in the adjoining kitchen emptying his lunch
cooler. Any way I was going to share the news was going to provoke
a negative response, so I just plunged into my announcement, fully
expecting my exhilaration to be tarnished by his reaction.
“I have exciting news! I got the job at the magazine!”
“Are you kidding me?” Joe was the first to speak. “How in the
hell are you going to deal with that commute? Are you insane?”
Santa Rosa was over fifty miles into downtown San Francisco,
but closer to two hours of a commute during the workweek.
Geoff and Angie cast a wary eye toward us as they scooped up
their dinner plates to move out onto the deck while Joe hurled every
argument he could think of to change my mind about taking the job.
I was exhausted, but instead of going to bed overjoyed about my
new job, I spent the night sobbing into my pillow. Joe never once
turned to comfort me.
It was an unbearable few weeks until I actually started my new
position at SportsZone. My excited anticipation was uncontainable. I
felt bad about leaving the nonprofit, and they made me feel even
worse by making it clear I was leaving them in a bind with my
departure. I wondered if anyone was going to congratulate me on
this new venture.
Even my parents seemed skeptical. “I don’t know, honey,” my
mother cooed as I heard evidence of her complete preoccupation
making dinner by the rattling of pans and dishes in the background.
“It seems like an awfully big step for you. Are you sure you’re
ready? I don’t like the thought of you working in such a big city. It’s
not safe, you know.” I assured her I would be perfectly safe, but
couldn’t satisfy her worries.
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My first day at the SportsZone office was a big eye-opener, but
for a different reason than I wanted. To accommodate for the length
of the commute into downtown San Francisco, I had to get up at 5:00
a.m. The time was disorienting. I was certain when the alarm blared
into the dark room that Joe had set it a few hours earlier than I
needed.
“No. It’s not possible,” I groaned into my pillow. “It’s much too
early.”
But the time was accurate, and I wobbled my way to the
bathroom. I kept closing my eyes in the shower, bracing myself
against the side of the stall as I wobbled from the disruption to my
normal rhythm and too few hours of sleep.
As much as I loved the job, I thought it would get easier, but the
work was demanding and tiring, so I came to dread the morning
alarm. Day after day, I would drag my weary body out of bed and
force myself to wake. Fatigue took a major grip on me within the
first week. I bought the largest travel mug I could find for my
commute and refilled it to the brim the minute I touched down at the
lobby coffee bar. Every morning I was reaching the Golden Gate
Bridge just at sunrise. Rather than appreciating the beauty as the
rays of sunshine unfolded, I began to despise the sunrise.
I took the last, slightly warm gulp of coffee from my mug,
willing it to stir me out of my lifelessness, I wondered if Constance
might be up yet so I could tell her about the phenomenal party the
night before. I dismissed a thought to call her or bounce up the lane
to knock on her door. She’d been working hard on a new
production. If she was still asleep, it was well-earned rest. I settled
into the oversized chair in the nook with the newspaper, but only
made it only through a few sections before I dozed off. After a rather
long nap on the chair, I awoke stiff and needing a good long shower
to loosen up.
Though my new job provided freedom from Joe and his
controlling ways, I led a fairly unspectacular life after moving into
my little haven. My job was my highest priority and focus. Long
work days left me little time in the evening to do anything but
decompress from the day. I had so much to learn about the
publishing business, so I tried to absorb as much knowledge as I
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could, not knowing how to pace myself. To compensate for the
intensity of my work days, I slept too many hours on the weekend,
exaggerating the imbalance of it all. I considered it a temporary state
until the undetermined time in the future when it would all balance
out.
The day trudged along for me. Normally I enjoyed the slow
pace of the weekend since I was such a creature of habit. I used
every Saturday to accomplish all my errands. Sundays were always
my day to read. Oftentimes I wouldn’t even venture out of the house
the whole day. The Sunday paper alone could consume three to four
hours as I read every page voraciously, sequentially, page by page,
not jumping between sections like my dad used to do.
My poor night of sleep was resounding in my head and evident
in my slow and deliberate movements. It was a good thing I hadn’t
had more cocktails at the party, or I would have been in a greater
world of hurt. The clock ticked excruciatingly slow, even for a
Sunday. As each Monday approached, I was fortunate not to dread
the end of the weekend, but thrilled to be starting a new workweek.
My new job at SportsZone demanded long hours, but was
exhilarating, pushing my limits in my skills, providing a new
landscape of learning and acquiring new expertise.
My first job in California had been my position at the nonprofit
medical journal my former boss, Dr. Craig, helped me get. The
journal wasn’t high-profile, but it had certainly been a stepping stone
to build my baseline of knowledge in publishing to even qualify to
apply for a position at the magazine group. But SportsZone was new
terrain, a true corporation, publishing the best-selling titles found on
every magazine stand across the country and in quite a few foreign
countries.
Just the thought of work drifted into thoughts about Gregory. I
was curious about which publication he worked for. I was new to
the company, but interfaced with nearly every department, so I
knew he wasn’t in any of our most popular magazines. But now that
I knew his name, I could find him in our corporate directory to find
his business unit and, most importantly, what floor he worked on so
I could put myself in places so I might see him more often. I said
little mantras all day asking the forces to allow our paths to continue
to cross again.
I wandered through the kitchen, hungrier than normal even
though what I‘d feasted on at the company party was more than I
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typically ate in an entire weekend. Feeling more ambitious than
normal, I poked into various cabinets and shelves to conjure
something up for dinner, but all I could find were a few less than
appetizing leftovers. I was encouraged by a package of pasta until I
found there was no sauce or vegetables in the crisper bin. Everything
in the freezer had mushroomed into ice-encrusted sculptures that
were even less appealing. I grabbed my keys and headed out to the
grocery. Strolling through the aisles, every package tempting me,
items piled up quickly in my cart. I got sticker shock at the register
when the digits displayed an amount nearly triple any single visit I‘d
ever made.
I returned to the cottage just as darkness was creeping in. Every
sunset since the clocks had been set back in fall came far too early in
the day for me. The setting sun brought a drastic bite in the
temperature even though it was still nearly two weeks until the first
day of winter. San Francisco winters were so different than the ones I
knew back home in Colorado. I missed the beauty of a soft snowfall,
trees gilded with white flakes, and the soaring mountaintops etched
in white against the skyline. I remembered school closures during
my childhood, and regardless of heaps of snow outside the window,
we scrambled to the garage for sleds and ice skates. If our parents
didn’t make us go in every few hours to warm ourselves by the fire
with hot cocoa, we’d have played until our ears and noses were rigid
and red. San Francisco winters were just gloomy, dark, and dreary,
with the persistent smell of humid, dank redwoods infested with
hours and hours of pouring rain. I enjoyed it at first, but after a
certain number of days without seeing sunshine, it grated on my
attitude.
I was grateful the day had been spared from bursting clouds.
Some rays of sun had managed to filter down to brighten the interior
of the cottage for a portion of the day. But now, the black skies
dimmed the room and the conclusion to my day. Suddenly it was
more of an effort to make dinner than when I’d set out for the
grocery run. The complexity of tending the charcoals on the patio,
seasoning the salmon, chopping and grating vegetables, sautéing the
asparagus to the right tenderness, not burning the bread, running
inside and out to orchestrate the preparation burned out my
remaining energy. Finally, I sat down to a heaping plate of food. I ate
well for the first time in my little cottage, but felt so utterly alone.
Page 51
hapter
Monday morning finally arrived. My alarm clock intruded into
my dark bedroom, forcing me to start the day. I’d slept restlessly
again, whittling away all precious hours of sleep, second-guessing
every positive thought I had about meeting Gregory and not able to
force away doubts about what might happen when I saw him again.
Back and forth all night, worry and speculation wrestled; unable to
allow my anxieties to rest and just allow events to take place
naturally.
After a second consecutive night of poor sleep, I painstakingly
got ready for work. Distracted and out of sequence, it took me longer
than any ordinary day. Thoughts about Gregory had raced through
my mind all night. When would I see him again? How would he react?
I foolishly wished and worryied about the outcome. I could put
it out of my mind for only minutes at a time before I fell back into
the same pattern of anguishing mental questions I could never
answer. Our paths around the office had already crossed far too
frequently, but it would just be my luck to have that all change now.
Making a silent wish I would run into Gregory the first day
back in the office, I was more selective than usual about what I chose
from the hangers in my closet. Fears kept creeping in that the
exchange at the party was more innocent than I hoped.
What if it had been no more meaningful to him than any other woman
he’d met in the elevator or coffee bar?
I dreaded the image of seeing Gregory in the office lobby, trying
to catch his eye, and him passing me like any other stranger, with no
recognition of me. I rationalized my fears away; he had taken the
time to talk to me and complimented me. I needed to believe our
brief flirtation had some meaning and he would remember me.
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I decided not to attempt the ferry with the rough look of the
bay. But as usual, on the rare days when I drove my car into
downtown San Francisco, I cursed traffic the entire commute. Racing
into the building, I wouldn’t have been considered late in my boss’s
eyes, but I was definitely later than I preferred to be. I scarcely had
time to notice the lobby bore no resemblance to how it looked just
two nights earlier. I scanned every face in the lobby, hoping to see
Gregory. I spent more time than normal stirring the sweetener and
cream in my coffee in the lobby café, but my ridiculous lingering
could only last so long before I headed to the elevator disenchanted.
The prior workweek felt like an eternity earlier. I glanced at the
stack of work on my desk while peeling off my jacket, uncertain
which of the many projects I was going to focus on first. The flashing
light signaling a message waiting puzzled me. I never got any calls;
I was still too new and too unimportant.
I dialed into my voice-mail retrieval and sank into my chair
when I heard a sultry “Hey Riverdale” greet me from the receiver.
Gregory’s deep and resonant voice soothed my mindset. “This is
your knight in tarnished armor. I was thinking it might be fate you
fell into my arms the other night. But then, I am the kind of person
who struggles with the whole notion, whether life is merely a set of
coincidences that carry us through or if there really is some
predetermined fate that causes us to make our choices. Pretty deep
stuff for a Monday morning, huh? Anyway, I would love to see you
again since I want meeting you to be one of those coincidences that
changes my fate.”
His voice melted me, and my heart was pounding. I jotted
down his extension and felt an odd sensation just writing out his
name, Gregory Vincent. Seeing it in my own handwriting made the
whole situation less believable when it should have felt more real.
Richard came into my office and jolted me back to reality. He
asked me if I’d enjoyed the holiday party. It was rare he made the
effort for small talk. Our relationship had been strictly professional,
and I was glad our conversation at the company party had begun to
chip away at the ice. Richard made no mention of meeting Joe, and I
did everything in my power to steer discussion toward more
memorable parts of the night.
But when the pleasantries were over, he bombarded me with
work for his urgent afternoon meeting. I watched the minutes slip
past on the clock as I finished all the items on Richard’s task list, but
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I couldn’t break away for even a moment to call Gregory back with
the looming deadline of the meeting. I worked right through lunch,
but it was a solid sense of accomplishment when I delivered what
Richard needed nearly a full hour before his deadline.
I was anxious to return Gregory’s call, but I decided to wait
until the meeting started just to be sure there would be no lastminute
request from Richard. When I saw the conference room door
finally close, I dialed Gregory’s extension without even planning
what to say. When he answered on the third ring, I stalled.
“Gregory Vincent…” he said a second time.
“Hey Vincent.” I used his opening line and realized
immediately it didn’t sound nearly as natural for me.
“Riverdale?”
“Yes, it’s me. I got your voice-mail message,” I said, unable to
be more original.
“I’m glad you called me back. I’ll take that as a positive sign,”
he said.
“You should. It was quite a compelling message. I’m always up
for a discussion about the meaning and madness of life.”
“Ah, a woman after my own heart. But, before this goes any
further, I have to ask…” He hesitated, and my heart sank. “The guy
you left the party with, are you involved with him?”
Relief soared through me. “No. We’re not involved. Well, we
used to be involved, but it’s over. It’s definitely over.” I nearly
couldn’t stop myself from elaborating; luckily Gregory spoke before
I went into my history with Joe.
“I’m relieved to hear that. I didn’t want any distraction with
competition,” he laughed. “Seriously, I just needed to know I wasn’t
encroaching on a great love affair.”
“You aren’t. I wouldn’t even call it a mediocre love affair.”
“Sounds like an interesting story. I love a good complicated
one.”
I heard someone in the background ask him a question. “Just a
second,” he said, to me, I thought.
Then I heard him ask, “So would Friday be good for you?”
Silence.
“Are you still there?” he asked.
I grasped he was talking to me, not the person on his end. “I’m
sorry. I heard someone ask you a question. I thought you were
talking to them.”
ANNA RAE ABERLE
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“No. I asked if Friday would be convenient for our discussion
about fate versus coincidence.”
“Friday is great,” I replied.
I caught Richard out of the corner of my eye, motioning to me
from the conference room. I didn’t want the call to end, but I had to
ask Gregory, “Can I call you back?”
“No need,” he said. “I’ll send you the details for getting
together. You’re on twenty-third?” he asked, referring to my floor in
the building.
“Yes. How did you know?” I asked.
“Corporate directory has phone extensions and floor numbers,”
he replied.
“Of course,” I responded, embarrassed for not thinking it
through.
“I’ll look forward to seeing you Friday. If not before,” he added
with a touch of flirtatiousness.
I had no idea what sending me the details meant, but since
Richard needed my help, I didn’t have time to think about it. The
rest of the day slipped away from me, and it was after 6:00 p.m.
before I even found time to look Gregory up in our company
directory. Gregory Vincent. Writer. Trails. Not what I expected. I
thought he would certainly be at one of our powerhouse
publications, not the start-up. I knew the magazine Gregory worked
for was in jeopardy. My role among the executive leaders of the
SportsZone portfolio put me in a position to know more than the
people who worked at each individual magazine. The publication
was a questionable departure from the basic format of our other
magazines. SportsZone covered all the major sports, from
professional competitions to outdoor enthusiasts, with the niche
titles for practically every domain—biking, climbing, skiing, surfing,
and sailing. Trails was a new venture and was already being
reassessed because it didn’t carry the prestige or caliber of athletes
the other titles did.
It was a long and grueling day, so I was pleasantly surprised to
arrive home that night to hear a message from Constance on my
voice mail. “Hey lady, it’s me! I just saw you pull in the driveway,
and I’ve made way too much pasta, so you need to get up here and
keep me from eating it all myself!”
I quickly changed out of my work clothes and threw on some
comfortable old jeans and raced out the front door. Partway up the
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hill, I realized I forgot to grab some wine, so I turned back. Just as I
was closing the door with wine in hand, the phone rang. I shot over
to the phone, but the caller ID showed Joe. I let his call go to voice
mail and scrambled up the lane.
I had barely knocked when Constance whipped open the door.
“I am so thrilled you came up!” There was rarely a sentence uttered
from Constance that didn’t end with an exclamation mark.
It was only a few minutes before we were again giggling and
gossiping like old girlfriends who had told each other their deepest,
darkest secrets since grade school. I was grateful for our easy
conversations and the friendship we were developing. Even back
home, my relationships with my girlfriends were more about going
out to clubs than just being together and having great discussions.
As I held the plates while Constance heaped on pasta and sauce, it
seemed a good time to casually mention Gregory.
“So, I met a very interesting man at our holiday party Friday
night,” I ventured.
“Really? Tell me all about him.”
“I don’t know enough about him yet to tell you much,” I said,
letting logic rule my response as we moved into the dining room.
“It’s a guy I have seen around our offices a lot since I started, and he
is unbelievably attractive. But we definitely met in a most unusual
way,” I told her, and then I launched into my incident slipping
outside the bathroom at the party.
Between every bite I rattled on about all my various early
encounters with Gregory at SportsZone, his attire at the party, his
comment as he walked away, the color of his eyes, the intriguing
phone message and following discussion, the sleepless nights of
dreams about him.
“So not much to tell, huh? Sounds like you have a lot to tell. I
can certainly see this guy has gotten to you in a big way,” she said
with a warm grin and raised her glass to mine in a toast. “To finding
the men of our dreams,” she said as the crystal rang out.
Then she suddenly leaned forward onto the table and looked at
me with deep intensity. “There is something really powerful going
on here. I can literally see it in your eyes. I can feel it when you
speak. I mean, I know you just met, but you seem incredibly
affected.”
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“That’s crazy.” Trying to brush off her remark, I finished, “It’s
just been a meaningless flirtation and a phone call. It’s far too soon to
think about anything else.”
“That doesn’t matter. How many hundreds of stories are there
about love at first sight? Maybe thousands. It’s what he makes you
feel right here,” she said gesturing to her chest. “And I’m not talking
about your heart. I’m talking about how he makes you feel to your
core.”
I knew exactly what she was saying.
“God, it’s so exhilarating to see this happen to you,” she rattled
on. “I really will have to live vicariously through your love life.”
After we finished devouring her savory spaghetti and marinara, she
gathered up our plates and returned with the wine bottle.
“So, speaking of which, what’s going on in your past love life?”
She tried to act distracted as she struggled removing the reinserted
cork, but I knew she was dying to hear my answer.
I tried to resist a sigh, but it came out with full force. “Our
whole relationship was a major mistake. Joe and I have no reason to
stay together. We had no reason to be together this long except for
maybe bringing me here. I doubt I would have ever left Colorado if
it hadn’t been for Joe.”
“You don’t know that. But maybe it is a strange twist of fate.
One man brings you here; another man keeps you here. Stranger
things have happened,” she said as she refilled our glasses. She
settled back into her chair, not looking at me directly. “You know, I
consider myself a very insightful person. I really don’t want to
offend you, but the energy between the two of you that day you first
came to see the cottage just didn’t feel right. I mean, I know it was
just one situation, but I can’t see why you would ever be involved
with such a jerk.”
“How do you know he’s a jerk?” I asked.
She squirmed a bit, as if the words she’d used weren’t what she
planned. After an awkward moment, Constance said, “I heard how
he talked to you the first day you were here. I’d gone up to get the
rental application, and as I was coming back down the drive, I could
hear him yelling at you, even with all the doors and windows shut.
Some of the things he hurled at you…” She shook her head. “He was
positively abrasive. I mean, I can understand he didn’t want you to
leave him, but my God, he made it sound like you had no future or
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right to happiness if you moved in here. I mean, where’s the
support? Where’s the encouragement?”
“Yeah, Joe lost those qualities quite a while ago.” Then I
confessed. “Actually, he never had those qualities.”
Constance looked at me with questioning painted all over her
face. “Then I’m even more confused. So why do you still see him?”
“It’s been so messy trying to end it,” I responded, knowing it
was a less than admirable answer.
“There’s just so much…history,” I added with resignation,
being protective of Joe for some odd reason. Constance would detest
Joe even more if she knew how he’d badgered me to convince me to
have an abortion; she would think I was completely out of my mind
staying with him after my ordeal. It was a story to divulge to her
another time. I needed to reconcile it in my own head.
“History,” she said with a nod. “I get history. It can be hard to
sever those ties to the past. But you can’t let it prevent you from
moving into the future.”
We moved from the table out to the front room, where
Constance had a soft fire going. She shared updates about her
progress on the ballet costumes, showing me the various fabrics for
the designs in the most brilliant and dazzling colors. She perched
sketches of her concepts on the couches and then draped a few large
swatches across them to give me the full effect. I got lost in
fascination about her work. I spent my days fumbling through
information and business dynamics, while she was surrounded by
colors, textures, and artistry. Two totally different environments, yet
we communicated as if we were partners in our work instead of
polar opposites. With little commonality between us—she had no
siblings, had lost most of her family at a young age, had toured
around the world—we shared an instant connection with each other
despite our differences that bonded us.
I stayed too late at Constance’s, drinking more wine as we
talked about other productions and designs she had worked on. By
the time I faded into bed, I scowled at the clock as I quickly
calculated I would be lucky to get five hours of sleep. But for once,
instead of fighting it, I slipped into a deep and restorative sleep.
When the alarm music clicked on, it took me a few minutes to
register it was time to get up and start my morning routine. I was
tempted to hit snooze a time or two, but knew a few extra minutes
weren’t going to have any effect on my groggy, bleary morning.
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I arrived at work dead tired to find a stark white envelope on
my desk addressed “ALICIA RIVERDALE” in solid, bold lettering.
Inside was a handwritten message and a business card for City
Lights, a well-established bookstore near the office I hadn’t allowed
myself time to visit yet. The note read:
Riverdale ~
I can’t think of a more perfect start to a night of deep thought and
deeper discussion. Meet me at City Lights, Friday at 7:00 p.m. I’ll
call to confirm with you in advance.
Warmly, Gregory
I wasn’t sure how to take the invitation. Just meeting him at a
bookstore? I immediately wondered if I’d read too much into
Gregory’s intent. Maybe in his mind this wasn’t a date at all.
Did I misinterpret his invitation?
I thought I’d sensed a touch of flirtation, but possibly it was
more casual than I’d hoped. The mystery was unsettling and
thrilling all at once.
My workload for the day wasn’t busy enough to keep my mind
from wandering back to the invitation. I agonized whether I should
call Gregory to confirm I received his note, but what excuse could I
make for not waiting for him to call me as he said he would? How
could I make it less obvious I only wanted to talk to hear his sultry
voice again? Fearful I would call after hours and still find him
answering his phone in person, I was grateful the voice-mail system
allowed me unlimited ability to replay and replay and replay his
message from Monday. I laughed at my obsession with it, but still
found myself drawn to replaying his message every few hours just
to hear his soothing voice.
At home later that night, I was distressed because I didn’t know
how to call my voice mail at work and retrieve messages. I was
futzing with the phone when it rang and startled me. My heart
dropped as I saw Joe’s number displayed on the caller ID. Bracing
myself, I picked up the phone.
“Hello?” I answered tentatively.
“Too busy to return my call?” Joe barked.
“No, Constance had me up for dinner last night, and it was too
late when I got home.”
“And tonight?” he demanded.
“I just got home from the health club.” I lied too easily to him.
“I was just about to call you.”
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“Well, I wanted to know what day would be good to fly out.”
“To fly out?” I was mystified.
“To fly home for Christmas.” He sounded very annoyed.
“Oh. Christmas.”
“Yes. Christmas.” Even when he wasn’t trying to be sarcastic, it
still sounded like it to me.
“To be honest with you, I don’t know if I can go home for
Christmas,” I said.
“Are you kidding me?” He sounded more angry than
incredulous.
“Joe, this new job really means a lot to me. And I need the
money. I don’t have any vacation time yet and Richard hasn’t
mentioned anything about being able to take time off for the
holidays.”
“Well, why don’t you just mention it for him?”
“I don’t know. It seems like a lot to ask this early.” I was
hesitant to commit.
“It seems like a lot to ask for you to miss out being with your
friends and family at Christmas is what it seems to me,” he replied.
“Don’t be angry, Joe. It’s not the end of the world,” I said, not
hiding my annoyance in return.
“Just find out and let me know what day you want to go
home.” He slammed the phone in my ear.
I felt proud of myself for not crying. In the past, such an
exchange with Joe would have reduced me to a tearful fit and left me
pleading for him not to be angry with me.
An hour later, he called back.
“I’ve been thinking about it, and since getting the time off work
is apparently such a problem for you, Geoff and Angie invited us to
spend it with them.” The compromise clearly seemed a problem for
him, though.
“Fine,” I said without conviction. I wasn’t interested in another
tangle with him about the holidays; I just wanted to go to bed. I
would cancel on him later, when I had more energy to fight.
Then Joe proceeded with another unexpected question. “What
should we do this weekend?”
I dreaded his reaction to my answer, so I had to think quickly.
“I really need to tackle this unpacking, Joe. I haven’t touched a
box since you were here Friday night.”
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“Jeez, Alicia. Wasn’t that your excuse this past weekend too?
How can you stand that mess?”
“It’s not a mess, Joe. It’s just a few boxes left for me to unpack.
It’s not like I just sit around staring at them all day. I work long
hours, and there isn’t much time left at the end of the day.” I let it
end there. He didn’t need to know any more, and he would just
consider it excuses anyway. He offered to come down and help, but I
could tell his heart wasn’t in it, and I had no desire to see him, so
when I declined his offer, he didn’t seem too disappointed. I assured
him work was going to be slowing down soon and there would be
more time to spend together. I hung up the phone fully aware of my
hypocrisy.
Finally on Thursday morning, Gregory contacted me again to
confirm for the following night, but I had just stepped out of my
office to warm up my coffee. I was frustrated beyond belief. The time
stamp on the message proved I’d missed the ring by mere minutes.
“Hope we’re still on for tomorrow night. I’ve been looking
forward to it all week. We’ll meet at the bookstore and then grab a
cocktail or three afterward.” Gregory’s words about having drinks
sent relief through me it might all turn out the way I wanted with
him. My frustration from missing his call escalated when he
explicitly said, “No need to call me back, unless, of course, you find
something else better to do and plan to disappoint me.”
I was caught between the desire to call him back and express
my excitement or play it cool and calm. I so wanted to call him back,
but every excuse sounded too unconvincing. “No need to call back
unless…” Unless I can’t possibly stand to wait another thirty-three hours?
I thought. Yet, I resisted temptation in order to let the hours leading
up to my date with him be as appetizing as they could possibly be.
Constance came down later that night at my insistence for help
choosing an outfit for my night with Gregory. I made us a nice
dinner of grilled portabella and asparagus over rice since I needed to
finish off the groceries from my weekend shopping trip. Afterward
in my bedroom, amid the small mountain of rejections for the big
night, she teased me just as a teenage girl might before her
girlfriend’s first date with a new guy.
“So are you going to kiss him?” Constance taunted.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” I said. “This isn’t junior high. I’m not
going to speculate on how the night is going to play out.” When in
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fact, it had been the only topic racing through my mind the entire
day.
“Get serious. You are dying for this night to arrive.” Constance
wasn’t buying a single word of my nonchalance.
“Of course I am, but this is just crazy talking about it like
schoolgirls.” I feigned a mature air.
“So what? We are still girls. Women. But still girls. We still flirt.
We still get crushes. God forbid the day I don’t let myself get excited
about a guy. I’d rather be dead.”
“You’re right. I can’t remember feeling like this in far too long,”
I finally confessed and let measured enthusiasm creep in.
“Like since Joe?”
“That was entirely different. We were set up at a girlfriend’s
wedding,” I said as I turned to survey all angles of what we had
determined would be the perfect dress in the full-length mirror. “I
never had this kind of anticipation with Joe. It was a totally different
situation.”
“The maid of honor and the best man, huh? How cliché, and
yet, how much it explains,” she laughed as she grabbed my
wineglass when she got up to refill her own.
“No, it wasn’t like that at all,” I said, elevating my voice a bit as
she disappeared up the staircase. “One of the groomsmen knew him.
It wasn’t like a scene from a movie or anything.”
From the kitchen upstairs, Constance continued to vocalize her
thoughts, ringing down to me from overhead. “You know, I am
normally not so negative about a person, but I am still confused. The
day here in the cottage when I overheard, or I should say, when he
was yelling at you so loudly I couldn’t help but overhear him
criticizing you, was there ever a time when he was a great guy to
date?”
She bounded down the stairs, impressing me when she didn’t
spill a drop of our precious wine as I surveyed two different shoe
choices in the mirror, hoisting one leg and then the other, thankful I
could avert her eyes. I didn’t want to dredge up all the painful
memories of the miscarriage on a night so lighthearted and fun.
“Of course, Joe’s a great guy. Or, he was when we first started
dating. But then it all changed before we moved here.”
“Then what on earth made you consider marrying him?”
“I don’t really know,” I said with a touch of embarrassment.
“The girls I went to school with back home just graduated, got
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married, and had kids. I went to college, but when I graduated, I
wasn’t quite sure where to go from there. For a college town, there
weren’t a lot of career options for me there. I think I just got
complacent, and he was the first person to come around who seemed
to have a little more figured out than I did.”
“Sweetie, figuring things out is going to be a lifelong path.” She
smiled and hugged me impulsively.
Page 63
hapter
The workday on Friday, fortunately, passed like lightning.
Richard had a huge presentation coming up and needed me to
assemble tons of research on past advertising campaigns across all of
our magazines. Working on the research and materials was intensely
interesting and made the time pass quickly. But I had to work with
Cyndi, and despite it being entirely unpleasant because of her abrupt
and rude nature, my mood was hard to break.
“So I saw you with your boyfriend at the holiday party. He’s
not very tall,” she said critically. Then she rambled on, “And I
thought Richard’s wife was really plain. He certainly makes enough
money, you would think she could afford a better dress.”
She talked incessantly, her negative streak and criticism evident
in every sentence. Rather than acknowledge her slights, I just kept
focused on the work we needed to complete, constantly drawing her
attention back to the project in between her verbal attacks on nearly
every employee and their spouse or date.
“You know, I think if we print this section in color, it might
really give some polish to the overall content, don’t you think?” I
made the decision sound as if it were a question because giving
Cyndi a chance to interject her opinions as if the ideas were her own
was a tactic I had learned to somewhat smooth her obvious dislike
for me.
Richard always left early on Fridays, so I knew I wouldn’t be
trapped at the office late with an unexpected deadline. I hadn’t
wanted to drive back across the bridge to get ready for my date at
home since traffic would have made it impossible. Instead I brought
everything I needed to get ready at work. It was also a chance to get
some much needed exercise in the office gym after missing eight
days.
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The slick garment sheath protecting my dress hung
prominently from my filing cabinet handle. I chose the most visible
spot in anticipation of the night ahead.
I was preoccupied during my workout, and the small gym
didn’t offer all the equipment I normally used in my gym across the
bay, so I had to improvise most of my routine. I chose the cardio
machine that faced away from the clock so the incessant second hand
wouldn’t drive me crazy. Drying my hair in the locker room, getting
ready was much different than getting ready for a night out with Joe.
Even the emotion within was a different sensation. With Joe,
preparing for a date was always filled with apprehension. I was
usually less focused on my appearance than doing mental exercises
in anticipation of any scenario that would require I please, if not
appease or diffuse, him.
With Gregory, only natural excitement swelled within me. I
swore my heart was actually fluttering. Just one week earlier, at the
salon before the holiday party, staring into the mirror as my hair was
twirled and tucked up, my gut had been filled with anxiety, not
anxiousness.
The locker room was cramped and crowded. I regretted my
decision to dress for my date with Gregory in the women’s room of
office gym One woman knocked my cosmetics bag over, sending
tubes of lipstick and mascara shooting like marbles off the edges of
the compact countertop; another sent my dress zinging to the floor in
a crumpled heap when she threw open the locker next to mine,
rocketing the hanger loose.
When I finally finished amid the other woman vying for mirror
space, I was surprisingly pleased with the outcome. The black dress
Constance and I had chosen fit perfectly with a plunging neckline,
deep without being too revealing. A perfect showcase for my
delicate diamond pendant that had been a graduation gift from my
parents. My waist looked contoured with the slender silver belt
Constance had suggested as a last-minute touch. I turned to see the
curves of my hips and backside, the flare of the skirt just along my
knee line accentuating a mermaid-like lower physique. I had to
sacrifice the perfect shoe, a slinky sandal, for basic black pumps
more appropriate for the season. But their higher heel gave my legs
more length.
The energy from my workout gave me a natural flush, so I was
able to use less foundation than normal. I let my hair tousle loosely
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breezily onto my shoulders. I had attempted to wear it pulled back,
but it looked too formal every way I had tried to fasten it up.
In Colorado, the intense sunshine gave my hair natural
highlights, but since I wasn’t outdoors as often, the darker blonde
accentuated the deeper green tones in my eye color that rarely came
out. I was happy the color showed the exceptionally brilliant
emerald along with the blue, giving my eye color an interesting
jeweled combination. I was especially glad I didn’t see a drab color
from long, exhaustive work days and the toll of fights with Joe.
I refused to let my mind drift to Joe. He would be furious to
learn I was going on a date. Moving on and dating new people was
presumptive since we were living apart, but Joe and I had never
talked about any terms for our new situation. Instead of taking those
steps, we let us ourselves continue to be tethered to the past, not the
present. I didn’t know when we’d finally be able to completely sever
those weathered ties. A new romance was more appealing than ever.
I outlined my lips with a liner, careful to accentuate the
indention on my upper lip. Cupid’s lips, my mother used to call
them and lamented how I had gotten such defined, full lips when
hers were so pencil thin. A last dab of coral gloss to my lips, and I
was ready to go. I packed my things back into my workout bag
nervously and headed out to the darkened streets, toward my car.
I had hoped for a temperate night and wasn’t disappointed. The
air had some chill, but nothing like the week prior. The night was
even clear, not a speck of fog. The cast from the lights of the city
obscured the stars, but the sable blanket of the evening sky was
beautiful all the same. I drove north from the offices toward
Columbus Street, found a parking lot, and walked briskly to the
bookstore. I wasn’t familiar with the area and had to ignore the
interesting boutiques that lined the street. Because it sloped so much,
I had to just concentrate on keeping my balance in the heels I was
wearing.
The storefront was triangular, and I missed the doorway at first.
When I realized my mistake and doubled back to find the entrance, I
stepped into the bookstore through the weathered front door. An
old-fashioned bell announced my entrance, but only a few eyes
glanced my way. The scent inside was a blend of the odor from years
of patrons and the musty scent of weathered wood and ink. Racks
and racks of books stacked ten or more shelves high were
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everywhere. Every available inch of wall space was plastered with
flyers for live music events, book readings, and political rallies.
The array of customers was as varied as the titles tucked on the
shelves. An older man who grumbled or coughed—it wasn’t clear
which—every few minutes as he scanned an oversized art book. An
attractive couple flipped through the parenting options. A young
mother with two wildly energetic kids tried valiantly to keep them
quiet while choosing an armful of what appeared to be a few weeks’
worth of bedtime reading. A group of Asian teenagers were spread
throughout the store taking pictures of each other against the
backdrop of the books.
I lost track of time waiting for Gregory, seduced by the books.
Each section had bold signage and floor-to-ceiling shelves that
beckoned to me. I used to read voraciously when I was young. Every
waking moment, I had my nose in a book. My dad called me
“Worm,” short for bookworm. Not a very flattering nickname for a
girl, especially in my older years when adolescent boys would be
waiting in the landing and Dad would yell up, “Worm, your date is
here!”
I read at the breakfast table. I read during breaks in school. I
read on trips to the store and when running errands with my mom. I
read on the way to church. I most definitely read on every tedious,
boredom-evoking, car-ravaging summer vacation. Two weeks, each
and every summer, we traversed across four states to visit with each
set of grandparents, trips that required a book sack nearly equal to
my own body weight to keep me occupied through it all. I even read
at the dinner table.
I wrote my own stories in grade school. During summer breaks
I wrote plays for my sisters and our neighborhood kids to turn into
full-scale productions on a makeshift backyard stage. In my final
years of college, nearly every professor encouraged me to develop
my writing skills and work toward a career in journalism. But those
classes centered on predetermined topic and a need to follow a
certain formula I found stifling.
After I arrived in California and worked in publications, I
realized magazine article content was often angled to supportive
segments for the paid advertising commitments. Writing for a
magazine no longer held appeal, so I settled into a nice niche in the
operational aspects. I wandered toward the new fiction section
remembering one of my favorite professors, Dr. Prouty, distracted
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along the way by compelling, vibrantly colored book covers or titles,
certain she would have published her own book by now. Dr. Prouty
was the pivotal influence during college from the first day I entered
her class in my second semester. Unprepared for the demands of the
collegiate environment, it was an incredible change of pace, with
more demands than high school. Accustomed to doing my reading
and writing papers the day before they were due, I had never had to
invest too far in advance of deadlines. That strategy did not work at
all in college. The volume of reading, the intensity, and expectation
of the assignment changed exponentially. Dr. Prouty was the only
approachable instructor. Her determination and patience helped me
evolve my interpretation of the concepts and translate into my
papers. With her guidance, I gradually improved my grades, but
without her investment, my depth of discouragement would
probably have ended my college career.
Lost in my thoughts, I hadn’t noticed someone very close
behind me. I could barely even turn around, as he was nearly
enveloping me with one arm braced on the bookcase, just over my
head.
“I see you found it,” Gregory said in a smooth whisper. When
he smiled, my heart fluttered.
“Of course I found it. This place is simply remarkable,” I replied
in an appropriately hushed voice.
Gregory was dressed in a deep, rich blue V-neck sweater
layered underneath with a crisp white shirt. He had on gray slacks
obviously tailored specifically for his massive, athletic legs. He
looked comfortable but classy.
Gregory threw his coat over his shoulder and then leaned down
to whisper, “And you look remarkable. I thought you looked
incredible in blue, since it accents your eyes so perfectly, but classic
black is quickly becoming my second favorite.” Gregory’s eyes
dropped to my waist, and then to my legs and heels, but it felt
flattering, not leering.
The feminine black dress, simple and flattering, was definitely
the right choice. Without being too short, it emphasized my shapely
legs. Even Constance had commented if I had grown only about five
inches taller, I might have had a calling on the dance stage or
runways.
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I felt momentarily more in control than Gregory. I knew if I
leaned in a bit more, our flirtation could easily evolve to our first
kiss, but I wanted it to happen under more ideal circumstances.
When he returned his eyes to mine, I said, “So there’s
something I am dying to know,” as seductively as I could manage.
“Yes?” Gregory asked as he leaned in closer so we were nearly
face-to-face despite our height difference.
“Why a bookstore?”
He straightened up slowly and smiled. “If you weren’t a fellow
literature lover, I’d be able to end it here and now.”
“Oh, a test?” I laughed.
“No, not a test. A simple commonality I wanted to know if we
shared,” he said.
“I see. A test of commonality,” I giggled. “Tell me everything
you know about this bookstore. It’s fascinating.”
“Something tells me I have a lot more work to do to get you
fascinated with me,” he replied.
How wrong he was. But he indulged my curiosity. “City Lights
is definitely a landmark. Do you know the owners still get an
occasional check in the mail? Guilty beatniks sending repayment for
books they stole back in the sixties,” he said as we walked through
the cavern of books.
“You’re kidding?” I asked, impressed by his intimate
knowledge about the bookstore.
“I’m not. This bookstore has a rich, interesting, and unique
history.” He glanced up at the massive shelves and nodded to them.
“Pick one.”
“What?”
“Pick a book. Any one. My treat,” he replied.
“I couldn’t,” I said.
“Of course you can. Why else would I bring you to a
bookstore?” Gregory asked.
“Technically, you didn’t bring me.”
“Oh, I see. We’re going to be very literal about things,” he
joked.
“No, it’s just a simple point of clarification.”
“Point taken.”
I turned back to the shelves, excited to make a selection. I hadn’t
bought a new book in years. “The problem is I have most of these,” I
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said as my eyes soaked in all the bindings’ titles. “Literature majors
have to collect and consume all the classics.”
“A literature major?” He nodded in approval. “I thought we
might have been kindred spirits in that regard.”
He looked far from the picture of a literary type to me. “I would
never have guessed you for a literature major,” I told him.
“What? Too geeky? I know I look more like the computer
programming type,” he sighed. “It’s plagued me my entire life.”
“Hardly either type. Try Olympic athlete type,” I said.
“Ah man, you’re going to make me blush now,” he said, clearly
flattered by the compliment. Then he stepped back to survey the
store. “But we still have to choose a title for you.”
“Why don’t you choose one for me?” I suggested.
“Excellent thought,” he said. “But you’ll have to give me at least
a little direction. Favorite author or preferred genre? Being a
literature major tells me you’re not a historical romance or sciencefiction
buff, but you’d like something a little risqué, perhaps?” He
raised one eyebrow slyly.
“Risqué is good. But only if it offers insight into some complex
issue, but with wit and brilliance.”
“Good thing you aren’t too particular,” he said with playful
sarcasm. “But it actually tells me the most obvious choice. What have
you read of Margaret Atwood?”
“Just The Edible Woman back in Women’s Literature in college.”
“She’s got so many other incredible works now. She’s a perfect
choice for you. Let’s go find her.” Gregory took my hand and guided
me through the maze of shelves. He obviously knew his way around
the store, and we were scouring her titles in mere minutes. He pulled
a thin book out from near the end of her section.
“Here’s one that would be a great choice for you. Surfacing. But
I’ve got to warn you—” His voice took on a pseudo-authoritative
and counseling tone. “It’s among her more difficult works to read
and interpret. But her symbolism is simply magnificent. You
yourself said, ‘the meaning and madness’ of life. You have no idea
how relevant a statement that will become to you after you read this
book.”
His eyes gleamed and danced, reminiscent of how he looked
when we spoke for the first time the week before at the holiday
party.
“Sold,” I said and snatched the book out of his hands playfully.
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“Whoa there, it’s not yours until I properly inscribe it.” He
plucked the book right back out of my fingers and tapped it lightly
on the tip of my nose. “And even though I’m tempted to steal it and
send the check to them in about ten years, I’d prefer to make a better
impression on my date.”
After he paid for the book at the register, we moved to the end
of the counter, where he took a pen from the salesman and opened
the book to begin the inscription, but then he stopped.
“I think I need a little more time to craft the right words,” he
said as he slipped the book back into the bag. “Now, on to the next
destination.” I could tell he enjoyed the novelty of doing the
unexpected.
We ventured out to the street when Gregory pointed to my
shoes and asked “Are those comfortable enough to walk a few
blocks?”
They weren’t comfortable enough for even two more steps, but
I pretended otherwise. A partial moon hung in the sky, its edges
fuzzy from the veil of night fog creeping in. Gregory helped me with
my coat and slid his arm through my arm in an old-fashioned
gesture. The lights from the towering buildings overhead lit the
sidewalk as we walked down Pacific Avenue toward the wharf. I
wasn’t sure where we were headed, but Gregory escorted me with
full assurance. After a few blocks, just when I thought my poor
pinched toes couldn’t bear another step, he guided me into a
doorway.
We stepped into yet another era, where a towering dark oak bar
dominated a cramped lounge. Square, coppery etched tiles spanned
the entire ceiling. The lounge had Victorian couches situated around
the periphery of the room and monstrous, gaudy framed art hanging
on the walls. Every doorway and window was draped in richly hued
midnight blue velvet curtains with tasseled gold trim. The barstools
were massive and ornate. Cigar smoke permeated every fabric and
fiber in the room. The bar was crowded and noisy, but not too loud.
Faint piano music wove through the conversations from the tables.
We selected a small high-top table situated along the long bank of
windows. Gregory ordered a martini, and I chose a harmless
Chardonnay.
“To finally making your acquaintance,” he toasted.
“Whatever do you mean by that?”
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“How many times have I tried to talk to you in the lobby or
elevator?” Gregory asked.
“I’m not sure what you mean.”
“Two times at the coffee bar, no, three. Twice in the elevator,
once at the corner before we came across the street,” he recounted
for me, using his fingers to illustrate his point.
Suddenly more interactions flooded my memory. “I wouldn’t
say it appeared as if you were attempting to start a conversation
with me any of those times. It was more like you provided
commentary about something,” I clarified.
“Exactly. Only to be ignored.” He sipped his martini in mock
disgust.
“Ignored? No. I just sometimes didn’t quite know how to
respond. You have to admit you have very innovative ways of
projecting a statement that isn’t exactly tied to a conversation.”
“And? Your point?” Gregory asked in a way that showed he
was enjoying our banter.
“My point is, some people might find that, intimidating,” I said,
but I wasn’t happy with my word choice.
“And you found it intimidating?”
“I didn’t mean intimidating. I’m not exactly sure how to
describe it. You certainly don’t follow normal convention, that’s for
sure.” I was digging myself deeper. “Most men would say hello first,
or introduce themselves, or ask for the time. I was just never quite
certain how to respond to you, is all I’m trying to say.” If I could
only tell him how conflicted I had been between leaving Joe and the
building attraction with each time I would run across Gregory.
I didn’t want to spend another minute talking about the odd
exchanges of the past so we could focus on the future.
“Never mind. You are truly an individual, and I like that about
you. Besides, we’re here now. I fell into your arms like some comical
version of a fairy tale, and what’s past is past,” I said as I raised my
glass.
“What’s past is past,” he agreed and tilted his glass to mine.
After a few leisurely martinis for Gregory and a second white
wine for me, I needed some food to keep the liquor from going to my
head too quickly. I looked at Gregory as I pretended to read the
menu. He had dark, scowling eyebrows that didn’t match his
personality. Every facial feature had its own prominence, his wide,
dark, eyes, a large, sculpted nose, and substantial lips, perfect for his
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large frame. His skin was flawless, out of character for a man with
no trace of whiskers or coarseness from shaving. His olive tone made
me guess a Greek heritage somewhere in his lineage. His hands were
broad and dwarfed the martini glass as he drank. He wore a wide
brushed nickel watch with an onyx face visible along the cuff of his
sweater, and a thick platinum ring on his little finger. We ordered a
few light appetizers, and I felt so completely content as I watched
him across the table. He had such an easy laugh and wit. It was the
best date of my life, and I didn’t want it to end.
The night was full of sexual tension and attraction. Every time
Gregory laid his hand on my arm to emphasize a point or when he
pulled his chair closer to mine and let his leg linger against mine, a
surge of arousal distracted me from our conversation.
“So tell me, Riverdale, how long have you lived in the city?” he
asked.
“I don’t live in the city. I live in Marin,” I replied.
“You’re kidding. I was certain you were a San Francisco girl at
the core. I live in Sausalito.”
“I’m in Tiburon.”
“We’re practically neighbors,” he said with a smack to his head.
“I wish you would have told me. I am a mess when it comes to
navigating this town. That’s why I suggested we meet. I could have
picked you up.”
“I kind of liked it this way,” I replied. “It added more mystery
to the night.”
The night proceeded with deep and intriguing talk that came so
naturally between us. Literature, music, theater, I was impressed by
his scope of appreciation for cultural arts balanced by his true love of
the outdoors and nature. I couldn’t have designed a more perfect
man. Our talk drifted to his upbringing in Southern California. He
had only lived in the Bay Area since summer and still considered
himself a transplant with an endless list of things to experience in
San Francisco.
It was clear he was passionate about his work, his family, his
activities, and literature. I hadn’t been too far off the mark describing
him as an Olympian; he was training for a triathlon and was
passionate about his sport. His idolization of family was apparent
when he talked about his parents, who were both professors. His
admiration and respect for them came beaming through as much as
it did when he spoke about his two brothers, one who was older and
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a lawyer on the East Coast, and his younger brother, who was about
to graduate from his alma mater, USC.
Gregory showed equal curiosity about my life. But as soon as I
shared Colorado was my home state, it was all he wanted to talk
about since it was a favorite vacation destination of his.
“One thing I can definitely say I miss, is the turning of the
Aspen leaves.” I commiserated. “It’s incredibly beautiful here. I’m
literally awestruck every time I drive across the Golden Gate Bridge,
and the city is breathtaking, day or night. It truly is a paradise here.
The changing of the leaves is the only thing I would change. There’s
no period of transition. You go from months of it being hot and
sunny, to months of it being cold and rainy. Summer and then
winter, then summer again. I miss autumn and spring. Those
seasons are nonexistent here.”
“You think it’s bad here, try being from Laguna. Talk about the
same season, every day of every year,” he lamented. “Do you
remember the night we met? I told you my favorite golf course was
named Riverdale? It’s in Colorado. I go there at least two times a
year. It’s great training for triathletes. The altitude. Gives us better
endurance.” He winked.
“Riverdale Golf Course in Colorado? I don’t think I’ve heard of
it. But then, I’m not a golfer.”
“If you’d be interested, I’d love to teach you. It’s a great sport.
Aggravating, but great. Fresh air, strategy, and skill. All the best
components of a day.”
I loved his perspective on life. He saw something wondrous in
even the most common events.
We were shocked when the waitress flitted by to announce the
last call. Five hours had zipped past. While we waited for the bill,
Gregory inscribed my new book.
I thanked him for the book and the inscription as he walked me
to my car. As he reached around me to open my car door, my heart
was hoping for a passionate goodnight kiss, but instead he wrapped
his arms around me warmly.
“Meet me one more place,” he murmured into my ear. “Drive
across the bridge, and meet me on the other side. When you get to
Bridgeway Boulevard, pull over, and wait for me.”
I was drunk with the content of the night. The conversation, the
energy, the attraction, I would have driven into the frigid waters of
the San Francisco Bay if he had asked me to. As I drove across the
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Golden Gate Bridge, I let my sunroof glide open. The torrential
sounds of the night winds clashed with the music blaring from my
car speakers. I scarcely noticed the cold air and deafening noise
rushing into the cavities of my car. My mind was preoccupied with
desire for Gregory.
It wasn’t clear where I should pull over when I reached the
north end of the Golden Gate Bridge. Gregory had trailed behind me
in his Jeep since we’d left Columbus Street. I pulled off into the
gravel at the edge of the road and motioned him ahead. I followed
him a few hundred feet further until he pulled onto the shoulder of
the road. When we got out of our cars, Gregory took my hand and
steered me down a small embankment. My heel sunk into the grass,
and I stumbled, letting out a barely perceptible shriek. Once again,
Gregory caught me from falling.
“This seems to be a pattern with you,” he laughed.
“Lucky for me, you’re always here to catch me.”
“Absolutely,” he replied, “absolutely.”
Gregory led me to a small bench not visible from the road. He
produced a small tote with a bottle of wine and crystal stemware
carefully strapped inside He swiftly uncorked the wine and poured
the deep red Cabernet with an intoxicating aroma.
“Smooth,” I told him. “This doesn’t appear planned at all.”
“That obvious, huh?” He winked at me. “Of course, I wasn’t
banking on you living on my side of the bridge. So fortune was on
my side there. This is much better than drinking out of my trunk in
the parking lot. I am just thankful the weather held.”
Then he raised his glass and looked contemplative for a
moment. “To an evening that exceeded all of my expectations,” he
said finally. I smiled, and our glasses softly chimed against each
other into the silence of the night.
I sank as best I could into the stiffly formed bench, but even as
uncomfortable as it was, there was no other place I would have
wanted to be at that moment. Captivated by the lights of the Golden
Gate Bridge and the San Francisco skyline, I felt as if my life finally
held promise.
“Look at the lights,” I sighed. “I could sit here all night long.”
“You should see it here at sunrise.”.
I groaned, “I can barely get out of bed at sunrise. I am so not a
morning person.”
“No, it’s glorious. We’ll come here for breakfast someday.”
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“It will have to be a lot later than sunrise if you expect me to
come.”
“I expect I could make it worth your while.”
“You could certainly try,” I retorted jokingly. “Even the
excitement of my new job at SportsZone didn’t make it worth my
while.”
I told Gregory about the dreadful days of my commute from
Santa Rosa and the torment of the alarm clock. I nearly slipped up
and mentioned Joe. It was too soon to talk about that topic. I worried
what Gregory would think about my failed engagement, that I had
lived with someone. Those were some truths I was in no rush to
reveal.
In true form of the entire night, we were rapt in conversation
again quickly. We spoke about the politics of work as much as the
politics of the nation. We had such similar viewpoints and
philosophies, it was eerie at times.
We couldn’t polish off the entire bottle of wine, so my heart
jumped when he reinserted the cork and said, “For us to finish
another night soon.” He stood and turned to take my hand to help
me to my feet. The night fog was dense across the water and
dropped the temperature from bearable to brisk cold.
“Your hands are freezing.” My tiny hands disappeared as
Gregory placed his gigantic hands around mine. I could immediately
feel his warmth. “You’re shivering, too. Why didn’t you tell me you
were so cold?” He guided my hands up underneath his sweater,
where I could feel the heat from his torso. He wrapped his arms
around me again, but this time, he looked down into my eyes.
“May I kiss you?” he asked.
“Please,” I pleaded.
He leaned in slowly and placed a sequence of whisper-like
kisses on my mouth. My lips accepted his kisses eagerly. He moved
his mouth to my neckline and kissed along the slope of my neck. He
whispered heavily, “I’ve been waiting for this kiss since the day I
first saw you.” His lips moved back and connected with mine with a
gentle intimacy at first. But soon we were kissing deeper and more
intensely when he slid his hand through my hair in a passionate
grasp.
I let myself collapse in his arms, but his strength held me
upright. “Oh God, oh God,” I moaned. It was sacrilege, but I felt I
was experiencing a heavenly moment. We stood in the cold, arctic
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air, absorbed in each other, for as long as we could until he finally
broke his grip.
“Okay, now I’m even cold,” he said as he brushed my nose and
forehead with more kisses, and I could feel the chill on his skin. “I
can’t believe I’m saying this, but I think it’s time we head out.”
I knew he was right. I also knew I needed to go home alone,
because I didn’t trust myself. I had kissed him with total abandon,
and while it was liberating, the feelings he stimulated in me were
also frighteningly fast.
Gregory navigated me up the sloping grass to my car. The night
ended with another deep, passionate kiss. Driving the meandering
road toward home, completely captivated by Gregory, I knew my
future with Joe was sealed shut.
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hapter
The phone rang far too early for my pleasure. I cleared my throat,
but my voice still sounded hoarse.
“Did it meet your wildest expectations?” Constance’s voice was
just as raspy as my own.
“More than you know,” I sighed with a stretch into the pile of
pillows. “More than you know.”
“That’s all I needed to know before I fell back asleep. I just
couldn’t wait to know. So sleep soundly and come up in an hour or
so for coffee so I can hang jealously on each and every detail of your
night. Bye.”
I turned the phone off and laughed at her eagerness. What a
great friendship we were building. I slid easily back into a deep and
blissful sleep. About an hour later, I awakened peacefully. I could
feel a heat in my heart, a pulsing, and an intensely fulfilling memory
of the night just passed. I touched my lips, not even nearly
replicating the feel of Gregory’s lips on mine, but caressing them and
imagining him there with me. I dropped my hands to my breasts
and tenderly traced my nails around my nipples. The excitement
that began with the kiss on the bay still warmed me. I imagined
Gregory’s lips on my skin, and I writhed in anticipation. I shifted my
hands down toward my inner thighs. I skimmed my nails against
my skin and felt a tingling, tickling sensation, but nothing like what
Gregory had aroused in me. I lingered there, and played the entire
night back in my head. Nothing could have made it a more perfect
night.
Constance was expecting me so I forced myself to roll out of
bed. The spongy mattress engulfed me. Being swaddled in the rich
texture of the sheets and the warmth of the blankets made me more
than reluctant to get up. In the shower, my movements were fluid
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and languid. I stood in the dousing spray much longer than normal,
tracing the soapy bar over every inch of my skin, appreciating the
silky, sudsy sensation like it was the first time.
“It couldn’t have been more perfect,” I proclaimed to Constance
once I finally made it up to her house for coffee and relayed nearly
every detail of the entire night to her. “I feel like I’m in a dream state
even now. I feel just so mellow and yet ultra-alert all at once. It’s
wild. Like even the smell of this coffee,” I said as I deeply inhaled
into my mug. “I can smell every element in the aroma, but if I had to
describe it, I could only just say, ‘It smells like really good coffee.’”
Constance looked at me intently. “You seem positively content
for the first time since the day you came to look at the cottage.
You’re in a totally different element. It suits you.” Constance smiled
into her coffee cup. “I’ll be damned if I can smell anything but coffee.
I need to find a man to smell what you smell.” She threw me a sly
wink.
After coffee with Constance, I trundled back to my cottage, fully
intending to go back to my routine, but instead I got consumed with
thoughts of Gregory and couldn’t find anything to keep my focus.
My dream state remained, but little pinches of frustration crept in
knowing I would I have to go two more days before seeing or talking
to him.
The pace of the day was excruciating. I couldn’t stop thinking
about Gregory and the lazy day we could be sharing. I finally
mustered the energy to head out to my health club, but it didn’t help
my lack of focus. My mind raced, replaying each word, each
exchange from the previous night. All of it up until the conclusion,
when he held me in his arms, and the feelings that poured out of me.
I knew I needed to call Joe and deal with the inevitable, but it
was going to be such an unpleasant experience, I wanted to
postpone it as long as possible. I was in such a dazed state I didn’t
want to break the spell. I spent the rest of the day attempting to
unpack more boxes but found myself just bouncing from one to
another, making some progress, but not actually emptying any one
of them completely. Even so, I felt some accomplishment and was
enjoying how well the cottage was coming together with Constance’s
furnishings and my own.
After reading the first few chapters in the book Gregory had
bought for me, I went to bed earlier than any normal Saturday night.
I looked forward to falling asleep. It meant another chance to dream
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about the sensations of the previous night, to relive every moment
again in my mind, to imagine a romance developing and what new
experiences I might share with a man who seemed to be a model of
perfection.
I awoke at a more reasonable hour that Sunday morning. It was
barely three weeks until Christmas, and I finally felt in the holiday
spirit and ready to tackle gift shopping. Browsing through the stores,
I was in an exceptionally good mood. But I could sense the tension
setting in with some store associates. I strolled through the outdoor
shops, delighting in the colors and decorations for the first time, but
they had been exposed to it since the day after Thanksgiving and
looked weary from the upsurge and volume of customers. I bought
more extravagantly than normal. I resisted the urge to buy Gregory a
gift although I gravitated to things I thought would appeal to him. In
contrast to ideas for Gregory, I was stumped about what to buy for
Constance. I knew it had to be something unique and spectacular,
but I had an unspecific concept in my mind that didn’t become more
concrete the more I looked. Walking toward my car after more than a
few useless hours searching with an armful of bags for everyone
else, it grated on me I hadn’t found something appropriate for her.
Back at the cottage, I dropped all my packages to the floor and
collapsed into the love seat from exhaustion. I could have fallen
asleep right there, but hunger growled at me. I ate some leftover
noodles right from the bowl, leaning on the kitchen counter, too
drained to even light a candle or pour a glass of wine. I warily eyed
my bursting bags of gifts, upset I had forgotten to buy wrapping
paper or bows, and I still had to ship everything. The task seemed
monumentally overwhelming at the moment, so I went to bed to
avoid having to stare it in the eye any longer.
After two nights of peaceful rest, I was bound to a bad night of
sleep. Glorious dreams were replaced by erratic images that woke
me multiple times during the night. The temperature in the shadowy
bedroom had dropped to an unbearable chill. My nose and ears felt
like ice cubes. It took me more than a few minutes to convince
myself to run upstairs and trigger the heater. I finally gave up
battling my uncooperative mind and got up an hour earlier than
normal. The cottage was still blindingly dark as I felt my way to the
bathroom door and started my usual morning routine.
A deep tinge of disappointment gushed through me when I got
to my office and saw no new message light waiting for me, leaving
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me the only option to replay the saved messages from Gregory to
start off my day. I made progress organizing my desk and priorities
for the week before anyone else arrived on the floor. Richard was the
first person to appear after me, and he seemed inordinately stressed
when he called me into his office.
“I knew I could count on you already being here.” He started
his greeting without any of the pleasantries like the week before.
“Our publisher needs us to check out what you can about the story
we ran last month on elliptical trainers. Hewants a full analysis of all
the advertising placed in the past year and upcoming for CardioStar.
They’re threatening to pull their advertising commitment. He needs
it yesterday,” he said distractedly as he sifted through the piles of
papers on his desk and glanced at the unread e-mails that spilled off
the monitor screen.
I was thrilled and petrified all at once. It was my first solo
project, and I wasn’t quite certain where to start. I made a few quick
calls to arrange meetings with some of the exercise equipment
editors. I opened my drawer to grab a notebook and spotted the note
from Gregory lying in plain view. I read it again and smiled. I closed
my eyes, remembering our magical night together, the palpitations
in my heart just being near him. I put my hand on the phone because
I so desperately wanted to call him. Instead, I said a little mantra,
“Please call me, please call me,” then headed to my meeting with the
first editor.
Certain I would return to my office to find a message from
Gregory, my disappointment escalated when there was no blinking
light to confirm my hopes.
I called Constance as soon as I got home to ask her advice.
“He didn’t call. I didn’t see him all day. I’m having a panic
attack.”
“It’s fine. Don’t worry about it, and he’ll call before you know
it,” she assured me. “Find something to take your mind off of it.”
“I do have these bags of gifts to wrap and ship,” I replied
without sounding motivated.
“Perfect,” she said. I replied with only silence.
“Or since you sound so motivated to do that, you could get
your rump up here and help me decorate this tree of mine,” she
offered.
The thought of the traditions I missed from home sparked my
interest. I hadn’t even considered buying a Christmas tree or
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decorating. My holiday boxes had been overlooked in the move,
orphaned in the attic back at Geoff and Angie’s house in Santa Rosa.
When I lived with Joe, homesickness had reared up fairly often.
Since I had moved into Constance’s cottage, those emotions never
surfaced. Her home felt like my home. I felt nothing but ease and
comfort around her, a familiarity that was part Constance, but part
myself, realizing new things about myself, establishing a new life
that fit me better than my childhood, my teenage insecurities, and
my wayward years after college.
I stalled agreeing to help Constance with her tree, as I didn’t
want to miss a call from Gregory, but remembering he still didn’t
have either my home or cell number took a mere second. My work
phone was the only lifeline I had to him. I would have just had to
idle away the night alone agonizing at the silent phone, so spending
the time with Constance was far more appealing.
“I’ll be right up,” I told Constance and threw the phone on the
bed. I threw on some warm yoga pants and a thick, fuzzy sweater,
grabbed a bottle of wine, and scrambled back up the path. Before she
even opened the door, I could hear her whimsical voice singing, “Let
it snow.” She whipped open the door in concert with the music,
belting from her lungs, “Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow!”
I couldn’t believe she had gotten the massive tree inside herself,
its top branches arched against the high ceiling and the massive
lower branches splayed out wide. We managed to splatter the tree
with a few sets of lights and an assortment of ornaments, but talking
about men was a far more appealing endeavor. We abandoned
decorating after a few glasses of wine.
I began the next day encouraged by Constance’s assurances
Gregory would call me soon, but when I arrived to work on Tuesday
to the same disappointing, non-illuminated message light, the selfdefeating
patterns crept in all too easily. I panicked again. It had
been four days. Too long. I convinced myself he was purposely
avoiding me and I had been blown off. Wrestling with my coat and
newspaper, I dropped my briefcase onto my desk and sent my cup
of coffee spewing across all my neatly stacked papers.
“Oh shit!” I scrambled to get the cup upright. Coffee had spilled
everywhere, and the papers buckled from the liquid. “Oh shit, oh
shit, oh shit.”
I retrieved all the dry papers I could while the river of coffee
raced me to the pristine sheets. I fled to the kitchenette on our floor
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and grabbed handfuls of paper towels. My hands were sticky and
drenched in coffee from sopping the papers dry, when the phone
rang. Aggravated at the mess I had made of my desk, I answered
less professionally than usual.
“Alicia Riverdale,” I barked with agitation into the receiver.
“Hey Riverdale. That greeting was a little gruff. I was going to
ask if you’ve had your coffee yet, but now I’m scared,” Gregory said
jokingly.
“I haven’t had coffee, but my desk has.”
“I’m sorry?” He was appropriately puzzled.
“Oh, I just spilled my entire cup of coffee across my desk and
ruined an important project I was working on. You should know
that no one has ever deemed me graceful.”
“I might have to dispute that,” he replied.
“You would be the first,” I said. Then, finally allowing the relief
that my wait for Gregory to call me was over, I sank into my chair
and let the remaining papers simmer in the spilled coffee.
“So, sounds like you need that coffee then?”
“I’ll meet you downstairs in about five minutes. I just need to
deal with the sludge that has overtaken my desk.”
In the elevator ride down to the coffee bar, I tried to plan my
strategy. Would I ask him about his weekend? Would I pretend I
hadn’t thought about him nonstop since Friday night? When the
elevator stopped on the seventh floor, the doors slid open where
Gregory was waiting to get on.
“Hello, Riverdale.” He stepped into the elevator with one grand
movement, taking me into his arms. His lips were on mine in a flash.
“Gregory, I don’t know if this is a good place for this.” I tried to
wriggle out of his clutch.
He only tightened his embrace. “What do you mean?” He
planted more moist kisses along my neck.
I regretted what I needed to say next. “We’re at the office. We
can’t be seen like this.”
“What do you mean? There’s no policy against dating
coworkers, is there?”
“Actually, there is.”
“You’re kidding? Aren’t you?” he asked with disbelief.
“I’m not sure it’s a written policy. But at least for me, working
in corporate, we’re explicitly discouraged from dating anyone in our
departments or at any of the magazines.”
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“Well that’s a hell of a conundrum,” he muttered as he slouched
against the elevator wall.
At lobby level, the doors opened to a small group waiting to
board.
“After you.” He stalled the door and gestured me out.
We walked together to the coffee bar in silence, until he asked,
“So we can’t be seen together?”
“I wouldn’t take it that far, but discretion would be good. This
is a new job for me, and I have really made it an effort to get here,
and I wouldn’t want to screw it up for anything.”
“I understand. Actually, this could make it a whole lot more
interesting.” His eyes glistened with mischievousness.
“Don’t get carried away. I’ll choose my job over you any day.”
“Ouch.”
“Just means it will require a little more effort on your part to
make it worth my while,” I teased. I was impressed at my own
attitude and confidence. Little did he know I would have worked at
the ferry docks if it meant being able to continue to date him. We
drank our coffee as slowly as possible, but my mountain of work
nagged at me.
I desperately wanted to ask when we would see each other
again, but I played it cool, only to be rewarded with absolutely no
indication from Gregory. I had hoped it would be just the two of us
in the elevator, but a few more people stepped in behind us. I was
encouraged when Gregory stood closer to me than he should and
tickled his fingers against my thigh devilishly. He leaned in and
whispered, “Good-bye, gorgeous,” before he stepped off on his floor.
Yet, the very next morning, when I arrived to the office to see an
unresponsive message light again, the cycle of doubt started all over
again. No message, no e-mail when I logged on. I couldn’t keep it in
perspective. I tried to devise some reason to call him, but the day
slipped past. I thought about going to the health club after work, as
it had been nearly two weeks since I had made time for my normal
exercise routine. But even with good intentions, the half-finished
Christmas gifts waiting in the cottage provided the excuse I needed
to skip another workout. I stopped on the way home to buy
wrapping paper and bows. After a few hours, amid the errant scraps
of holiday paper, scissors, and tape, the phone rang. I waded
through the stacks of gifts and grabbed the phone. I hesitated
answering the call when the caller ID displayed Joe’s name. The
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inevitable was calling at that very minute. I knew I shouldn’t
postpone it any longer and hit the talk button with reservation.
“Why haven’t you called me back?” Joe started off combatively.
“Joe, things are just really chaotic right now. I work exhausting
hours every day. I just got home, and I am buried in a pile of gifts I
need to get wrapped and shipped,” I said with a touch of edginess.
“I knew that job was going to be too much for you to handle,”
he spit out.
“It’s not that it’s too much for me to handle. I love my job. It just
demands a lot from me.” I heard him start to interject, but I just
talked over him. “It’s an important position, Joe, and for once I really
feel like I have something to contribute.” Joe was the last person to
understand commitment to a profession that was fulfilling. To him,
his job was about the paycheck and just a means to support what fun
he could outside of work. His job, was just a job, not a career or
passion. As such, I shouldn’t have expected him to relate to my
drive or ambition. Leaving Colorado had been a choice for him
based on the salary increase, not the exposure to other supervisors or
as a new channel to expand his career options.
“I called to tell you that we’re having Christmas dinner around
three p.m. here at Geoff and Angie’s. I figure you should come up
and spend the night on Christmas Eve so we can go to Midnight
Mass.”
“Joe…” I struggled with what to say next.
“What?” he asked. His voice dripped with impatience.
“I don’t know if being together over the holidays is the best
thing,” I said, inadvertently prolonging the course of our
conversation.
“What do you mean?”
“I think spending Christmas together will just be too hard.” I
wasn’t succeeding making statements that wouldn’t lead to more
questions.
“What exactly are you trying to say?” He sounded thoroughly
confused.
“Joe, we need to just end this. We’re not going anywhere with
this relationship.”
“We’re going somewhere. We’re still getting married.”
“Are we? We haven’t talked about it in months. We just avoid
the whole topic as if our problems will just magically disappear.”
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“Look, we’ve just gone through a rough patch, but it doesn’t
mean we can’t get it back on track.”
It was the first time I actually heard him sound scared.
“No, we can’t get it back on track, Joe. I need more than what
we had,” I said quietly.
“More than what we had? I have no idea what you’re talking
about.”
The Joe I knew was creeping back in. I could feel his temper
brewing and felt relieved I didn’t have to face him in his anger. The
safety of the phone cord gave me the courage to say things to Joe
that were long overdue.
“Joe, you know exactly what I’m talking about. I need to have
dialogue. I need to be with a man who talks to me, not at me. I need
to be with someone who respects me and doesn’t blow up at every
little aggravation. I need to be with someone who inspires me to
achieve better things for myself and doesn’t bring me down.”
“Oh, and you think there’s someone out there who will treat
you better than I have? Someone who will buy you a bigger rock for
your finger? Someone who gives a damn?”
His words smacked of his immaturity.
“That’s exactly what I’m saying. Good-bye, Joe.”
I let the phone slip into its cradle, stunned at my ability to
finally reveal the truth. I would never be able to break through his
wall of anger and guilt. My resentment ran deep, but my outlet was
never rage.
Joe called back multiple times, and the fighting continued late
into the night, proving I had every right to dread ending it with him.
The next morning, deep into the project for Richard, my phone
rang.
“I missed talking to you yesterday.” Gregory’s voice
immediately settled all my uncertainties of the previous hours
waiting for his next call.
“Likewise.”
“So what’s new?” he asked.
Just the final, fortunate end to a former engagement, I thought
wickedly, but it wasn’t the right way to phrase it.
“There’s a lot that’s new. But probably things better left to
discuss in person.”
“I’m intrigued.”
“Don’t be. Messy past relationship stuff,” I replied.
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“I’m still intrigued. See me tonight?” I sensed a touch of
enthusiasm in his question.
“Absolutely. Or is this about when I should start playing hard
to get?”
“Don’t you dare. I’m not like most men. I think that’s a turn
off.”
“Good, because I might find it difficult to pretend I wasn’t
interested in seeing you.”
“How about dinner?”
“Sounds ideal.”
“Should we do dinner on this side or on our side of the bay? I
brought a disguise, just in case.”
I laughed. “Did you bike in?”
“I did.”
“I took the ferry today. So why don’t you ride home, get
cleaned up, and meet me at the dock around seven p.m.?”
“Damn. I was in the mood for some espionage,” he joked.
The rest of the day passed blissfully quickly. As the ferry pulled
into the dock, I saw Gregory bundled up, waiting for me. He looked
just as if he belonged in a movie scene. His raven hair glistened,
reflecting the light from the lanterns that bordered the dock. He
wore a dark overcoat, with a navy-and-white checkerboard
cashmere scarf secured around his neck. His massive physique was
illuminated by the glowing lights of the stores in the background. He
braced himself on the railing with leather-gloved hands. The night
air was dank with fog, and the smell of rain hung low in the dark
clouds above.
I was barely able to say, “You must have frozen your tail off on
the trek home,” before he had me enveloped in his arms.
“It wasn’t pleasant, I’ll tell you that much. This kid is far too
used to the climate of Southern California. No one told me San
Francisco was so close to Alaska.”
He put his arm around me as we walked toward the row of
restaurants. Over dinner I told Gregory about my relationship with
Joe, how it had started out much differently than how it was ending,
mostly because Joe had radically changed along the way.
Embarrassed by how I clung to Joe because of my own
insecurities, I omitted only a few crucial facts. Most importantly, I
told Gregory how confident I felt about ending it but I didn’t know
how I was going to tell everyone back home. The taboo about talking
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about former lovers didn’t apply with Gregory. He listened
attentively and even offered advice.
“Don’t worry about everyone’s perception of ending your
relationship with a guy like that. I would expect they are far more
concerned about your happiness than to think differently about you
for ending an engagement. If they really knew the truth about what
you’d been through with him, I doubt there’d be a tear shed.”
“I’m sorry to dump all of this on you,” I said apologetically.
“It’s actually all right. I just feel bad he’s been such a jerk
toward you. And it tells me you have a very compassionate and
generous heart to work so hard to stay with a man who didn’t
deserve you.” He reached out and pushed a strand of hair away
from my eyes as they welled up. “Hey. Don’t.” He lightly reached
out under my chin and lifted my face to look me directly in the eye.
“We all make mistakes. I’m just glad you figured out staying with
him would be a bigger mistake.”
“Here’s to my newfound freedom.” I raised my glass to his and
let my last tear for Joe slide down my cheek.
“Amen to that,” he said. “But I’m curious. Does what is
happening here”—he gestured between the two of us—“have any
impact on your decision?” It was a more complicated question than
he even knew.
“Yes and no, to tell you the truth. Yes, because meeting you has
certainly opened my eyes to what I really want out of a relationship.
No, because the decision to not get married had already been made.
It just wasn’t clear until now why. And now, it’s crystal clear in my
mind, which finally makes the conclusion very easy to comprehend
and accept.”
“Damn. It would have been a much juicier story the other way!”
He smiled and winked.
The next day at work blazed past because I was excited Gregory
and I had plans for the weekend. He had called again the morning
following our dinner.
“Are you an outdoor kind of girl?” he asked.
“What did you have in mind?” I asked in response.
“A little hike on Mount Tamalpais Saturday morning. It’s
supposed to be a rare gorgeous day for December. There’s a warm
front moving up from the south. I’ll pack some food, and we’ll hike
down to a deserted beach area I don’t divulge to just anyone.
Consider it work-related research, if you will.”
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“I’m up for it. I don’t think I’ve used my hikers since I left
Colorado,” I said, hoping they weren’t in an errant box left up in
Santa Rosa.
“Well, then you’re far past due. I’ll even offer to pick you up
this time,” he said, and I could tell by his voice he was smiling.
“Wow. How chivalrous of you.”
“Hey now,” he replied with a laugh.
“I’m joking. I thoroughly enjoyed our first date.”
“Good answer. Address please.”
“Five-seven-seven-nine Paradise Drive in Tiburon.”
Silence.
“Gregory?”
“Wow. Sorry. That’s just eerie,” he said.
“What?”
“Five-seven-seventy-nine is what’s eerie,” he said. “I was born
on May seventh, nineteen seventy nine.”
“That is eerie.”
More silence.
“Well, my landlady said this place has very positive, ‘romance–
inducing’ vibes. So maybe it’s a sign I was destined to meet you.”
“Maybe that’s it,” but he didn’t sound terribly convinced. “I’ll
be there around six to pick you up.”
“Six? I thought you wanted to do lunch at the beach?” I asked
him,
“No, I said I would pack some food. I meant six a.m. The food
is for us to have breakfast on the beach.” “Seriously, what time do
you really want to pick me up?”
“Six a.m.,” he repeated.
“Let’s try a little later,” I said, trying to think what I could add
to be more persuasive.
“That’s right. You’re not a morning person.” He remembered
our conversation the night of our first date.
“Oh, I can fake being a morning person, but not a crack-ofdawn
morning person,” I clarified.
Just then Richard poked his head into my office. “Alicia, I need
you to come to this meeting.”
“How about eight a.m.? I’ve still got packages to box up to ship
back home. I’ll be struggling with those late into the night,” I felt
some need to exaggerate the scope of my task for the night.
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“All right, I’ll get some training in at the pool beforehand and
pack lunch rather than breakfast for my late-rising lady friend.”
I needed to get to the meeting and rushed through the specific
directions to the house.
Before he hung up, he said, “I can’t wait to see you.” His words
were all it took to slow my pace getting him off the phone.
“I can’t wait to see you too.”
A thrill raced through my heart as I hung up the phone. My
angst from throughout the week was erased.
I overslept the morning of our date anyway. I had a typically
restless night. Disruptive dreams caused me to wake up multiple
times. I awoke desperately thirsty around 2:00 a.m., but I wasn’t
about to expose my bare skin to the bitter cold of the cottage. I made
a mental note to remind Constance to check the furnace. I always
turned the temperature down for sleeping, but it often dropped
much colder than I set it. I hoped Gregory was right the day was
going to be warm. I could tell when it got that cold in the cottage that
it was bitter outside.
Just minutes before 8:00 a.m., Gregory rolled down the
driveway in his black four-wheel drive, rugged and classy, just like
its driver, gravel crackling under the wheels on his slow approach
down the steep lane. The air outside was brisk, yet I opened the front
windows to allow the fresh air in to mingle with a strong pot of
brewing coffee as I raced around to find all my gear in various boxes.
I was frustrated with myself for still having all of my boxes of books
and four more large boxes in the closet to unpack. It would soon be
two months since I’d moved in, and there were no good excuses left
to not be unpacked. Gregory’s knock was light, and when I opened
the door, he pointed to the metal numbers tacked outside the
doorframe.
“Five-seven-seventy-nine, seeing it live and in person makes it
that much more eerie.”
“Think of it as good karma,” I offered. “Or maybe it’s good
karma for me.”
“Now that very well may be,” he said as he kissed me lightly on
the forehead.
I motioned him in, apologizing. “I’m sorry I am running
behind. Of course, my hiking boots were in the very last box I
searched.”
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The cottage seemed suddenly small when he came inside. The
ceilings were lowest at the entrance before they pitched up over the
great bedroom below, magnifying his height.
“This is great!” he exclaimed, assessing the area. “Just as I
would have expected for you. Color. Personality. Style.”
“Well, I can’t take too much credit. It was already furnished,” I
told him.
“That doesn’t matter. You chose it,” he said.
“I did at that,” I said as I nodded in agreement looking around
the cottage. “Wait until you meet Constance. She is the creative
genius behind this place. In fact, she works for the theater. Her
whole life is devoted to creativity.”
“You can tell,” he said appreciatively.
I felt a flash of envy. But I knew it was exactly her creative
talent that had appealed to me most about the cottage and he was
just acknowledging how well she had transformed the cottage into a
tasteful, livable environment, so I let any envy dissipate.
Gregory peeked over the short wall of railing to the bedroom.
“Hey, care to give me the grand tour?” he asked.
“Of course.”
But then he spotted the reading area crammed with boxes
bulging at the seams with books. The lone exception was the book he
had bought for me on our first date. It lay conspicuously out on the
reading table. I had tried to read an additional chapter after I had
finished packing the gifts into the shipping boxes, but had kept
dozing off.
“I see you’re making progress with Surfacing,” he said over his
shoulder.
“I am,” I answered as I joined him in the space cramped with
boxes stacked high. “Thanks for noticing it. I would have been upset
if I had forgotten to bring it to the beach,” I said and took it to add to
my bag.
“Every title you own, I suspect?” Gregory gestured to my boxes
of books.
I nodded in confirmation.
“What a perfect reading spot: the fireplace, the windows, the
lighting, an ottoman to kick your heels up. But it’s completely
nonfunctional with all your books in boxes. I can’t bear the thought
of you not being able to take advantage of this perfect spot for a
library.”
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Gregory dominated the small space with his arms outstretched
to illustrate his thought. Then he started to survey the periphery of
the fireplace.
“This will work to mount some brackets for shelving. How
about next weekend?”
“Sure! I’ll check with Constance, but if we do the work, I am
sure she would be all for it.” I rejoined him in the tiny area, happy he
was thinking that far ahead. “There is nothing I would enjoy more
than having this area to read. These books haven’t seen daylight in
far too long.”
“Do you mind?” he asked as he peeled back the top of one of
boxes.
“Not at all. Indulge,” I encouraged as I went back to finish
packing my bag for our day.
Joe had been exasperated when I brought all my books from
Colorado. As we were loading the moving van, he looked at me in
astonishment when he saw the book boxes piled in the front room
with three more shelves left to pack up. “We’re not going to have
any place to store those. Can’t you leave them here at your parents’
house?” he had protested.
“You don’t put literature or great books in storage. You display
them, and you read them,” I reasoned with him.
“So, no, I don’t want to leave them here with my parents.”
He argued back. “Haven’t you read all of these already? We’ll
get you new books out there.”
“Typically you read a great book more than once, Joe. Besides,
these are all very meaningful to me. Most of these books are gifts.
Some of them I’ve had since I was a little girl.”
“My point exactly, when are you ever going to read A Wrinkle in
Time again?”
“Well, I may not read them all again, but it’s a cherished book
from my childhood. Whether I read them again or not, every one of
these books has a memory attached to it. I’m just not leaving them
here, Joe.”
Joe had given in reluctantly, but true to his word, we had
minimal space at Geoff and Angie’s, so he repacked the books into
smaller boxes, and they went straight into the basement. When Joe
and Geoff hauled them up for me, I was upset to find the humidity
had weakened their seams and the strapping tape holding the boxes
together. Even with reinforced tape, when Constance and I had lifted
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them from the trunk, I could feel the sturdy boxes were now flimsy
from the moisture. With each of us on a side, we were able to hold
them together for the final move into the nook, avoiding a
catastrophe of my cherished books plunging into the gravel and
mushy dirt.
But as Gregory pulled out a few of the titles, I was distraught to
see how humidity had taken a toll on them even in the protection of
the boxes in the basement. The hardbacks were on the bottom, and
seemed relatively intact, but every paperback was rippled. There
was no actual water damage, but I was angry at myself for letting Joe
be so careless about their storage.
“Oh no, I can’t believe this. They’re all ruined!” I cried out.
“It’s okay. They’re not ruined. We can fix them. I opened more
boxes and saw how carelessly Joe had thrown them in. Some of the
covers were torn and ripped. Others were smashed and curled into a
permanent new shape.
“How could I have let this happen? My books, my cherished
books,” I wailed.
Rather than brush it off as exaggerated emotion, Gregory was a
collected and calming force for my mounting distress as I continued
to fish books out of the other boxes. For each little pile I created, he
carefully constructed stacks according to size and state of
destruction. Those with ripped covers, he carefully operated on, and
he located every heavy object he could for those with buckled pages.
The darling cottage was cluttered with various piles of books. Joe
would have never had the patience to help me sift through an
unanticipated ordeal, while Gregory took it all in stride. He made me
feel less stressed about the smattering of books overtaking the room.
One glance at the clock made me realize I’d really altered the
course of our day even though Gregory didn’t act irritated. I wanted
to continue poring through them, but it would have taken hours to
get through every box and determine each book’s diagnosis. I told
Gregory it would all be fine, even though I knew it was going to
weigh on me all day. Worrying was my biggest Achilles’ heel. I
suggested we get on the road if we were to still salvage our day on
the beach. Gregory assured me we could keep working on it and
make our trip another day, but I convinced him I would handle it
later. He finally agreed, but not before he promised to help me get
through every box when we returned.
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As we left the cottage, Gregory grabbed my large box of gifts to
ship from the front table. “We’ll take care of this too. We may be
having dinner on the beach at this rate, but you’ll never be able to
lug this into the post office by yourself,” he said as he hoisted the
heavy box out to his Jeep.
After mailing the package, we snaked onto the winding road, now
heavier with late-morning traffic Gregory had wanted to avoid.
I told him, “You are simply amazing.”
“Whatever do you mean, Riverdale?” he said, obviously
uncomfortable with the compliment.
“You have the most centered perspective of any man I have
ever met. There is so much for me to learn from you.”
“Aw shucks,” he said like an old-time country character. “You
make me sound a lot better than I am.”
I could see the tinge of a blush creeping up from his collar. “No.
I say that with total sincerity. You are unbelievable. I am so lucky to
have fallen into your arms.”
I could tell he didn’t know how to respond, so to break his
unease, I unleashed a little lighthearted quip. “Of course, you have
relatively little competition, which allows you to seem much better
in comparison.”
“Ouch. Always with the comeback. One day I will learn my
lesson.” He laughed through his response. “Beauty and great wit, I
have died and gone to heaven!”
I laughed with him but still wanted him to know how much I
appreciated his patience with the detour in our day. “In all
seriousness, I’m genuinely grateful I’ve met you. You are simply
amazing.” He started to protest, and I interjected, “Someone once
told me the best response to a compliment is not to object, but
graciously accept it and move on to the next topic.”
“If you insist,” he said. “So you missed a truly incredible
sunrise this morning.”
“Ouch myself,” I said.
“No, I didn’t mean it like that,” he apologized. “Of course,” he
continued on with a slight lift to his tone, “if you had been able to
drag your butt out of bed a few hours earlier, we’d already be
lounging on the beach by now.”
“Yes, but then I’d be sleeping through our day at the beach, so it
worked out better this way.”
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We talked and laughed as we wound along the slithering roads
toward Muir Beach. Gregory parked his SUV in a turnout and
pointed out the trail down to the beach in an opposite direction from
where other beachgoers were entering a different trail.
The exertion of the steep hike was invigorating. Strong ocean
winds blew my clumps of hair across my face, as I failed to
gracefully peel them off my glossed lips without Gregory seeing,
while sunlight drenched down on us with uncharacteristic warmth
for the time of year. During our meandering descent toward the
roaring waves, I asked Gregory how he had gotten interested in
triathlon competitions.
“You can’t be a kid from Southern California and not be
exposed to the sport; it was the birthplace of the triathlon. But I was
also never into the brute sports like football, hockey, or boxing as
someone of my size might be drawn to. I just don’t get the point of
putting some helmet on then going out and bashing your head
against other guys. Where’s the strategy in that? And you sure
wouldn’t catch me out on a tennis court or racing around a baseball
diamond. My size does give me some limitations.”
I was walking in front of Gregory down the sloping hillside,
but when the trail narrowed, becoming rockier and steep, he moved
in front of me to help me negotiate the trickier parts.
“My size is a disadvantage for triathlons too,” he added.
“Especially the running segments, but since I was terribly
overweight in grade school, it keeps me motivated to keep my
weight down.” His voice trailed off. “I’ve never told anyone about
that,” he said with his embarrassment creeping back in.
My attraction to Gregory grew with every new fact I learned
about him, especially his vulnerabilities, a trust I wanted to
reciprocate.
“Does it help I used to consider myself the ugliest girl in
school?” I asked him.
“You’ve got to be kidding!” he replied.
“Not at all. I had really bad eyesight as early as first grade,
could barely see my own fingers in front of my face. I was way too
young to wear contact lenses, so I wore those hideous, thick Coke
bottle lenses. Being in love with every pastry my mom used to bring
home from the bakery didn’t help either. By third grade I was
wearing the same size of clothes as my oldest sister.
“I can’t imagine it,” Gregory said.
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“Oh, I don’t exaggerate at all. I used to sit in the car with my
back to the window, because I was so embarrassed by my thick
glasses and being the fattest girl in the class.”
“That I’ve got to see!” Gregory laughed. “I just know
somewhere in those distorted, weather-worn boxes you’ve got some
class pictures.”
“Trust me. Those pictures were burned to ash a very long time
ago.”
“I am sure a few good searches on the Internet would yield the
names of your old classmates or teachers I can bribe to send me their
copies. I just can’t picture it. You definitely fit the classic mold of
ugly duckling turning into a swan then,” he said just as our shoes
landed in the deep sand.
The secluded beach was spectacular. Rocks circled the
perimeter of the sand, jutting out into the water to create a protective
cove. The ocean waves broke onto the rocks and cascaded inland
with less force, creating a serene pool of shallow water, a brilliant
jeweled shade of bluish-green. The redwoods soared overhead,
providing a shield from the road above.
After we settled into a spot on the sand and ate our lunch,
Gregory pulled a notepad out of his pack. “I hope you don’t mind.”
He motioned to his writing paper. “I like to keep my writing near me
when inspiration hits.”
“What are you writing?”
“The great American novel, of course!”
“Of course,” I replied. “But in the meantime, what are you
really writing?”
“A novel. Seriously. My passion for books isn’t limited to just
being on the reading side of the page. I have a couple of manuscript
concepts I ‘m fiddling with.”
“You just continue to amaze me,” I said.
“Magazine writing is a noble career for some people. Me, I need
to have a little more investment in the scope and depth of what I
write. Most of the other writers at Trails and the other SportsZone
magazines are very good at what they do, but my passion is to write
substantial stories that have an impact. Everyone is so caught up in
television and movies; we’re losing the art of great literature. I’m
confident I could make a pretty sustainable life for myself with my
writing.”
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Writing as a career was quite a lofty goal. Certainly there were
numerous writers who made it big, but that was a mere fraction of
the overall population. I easily envisioned Gregory being among that
small minority. I hadn’t seen his writing, but if his skills even
remotely matched his attitude and personality, he was bound to be a
success. I said a spontaneous prayer Gregory would see his dreams
fulfilled through his writing. He was such a remarkable person and
had given me such a renewed spark in my life; I wanted nothing
more than for him to see all his goals realized.
As Gregory scribbled away, looking lost in thought and entirely
consumed in his writing, I made a nest from extra layers of clothing
we had shed and lay down to relax. Lying motionless, the intensity
of the sun seemed nearly hot in the pre-winter day. One ear was
muffled, resting on my arm, but the splintering noise of the waves
breaking prevented any degree of relaxation. Most people find the
lull of waves calming, but with each surge, my heart jumped, and I
found it impossible to drift off to sleep. The gentle wind tickled
across the hairs on my arms, and I could feel the first stages of gritty
sand caking onto my skin and hair. I was suddenly quite
uncomfortable and couldn’t find a position to settle into. I flipped
onto my backside and lengthened my arms over my head in a
languid stretch. I peered upside down and backward at the sloping
hillside we had hiked down, but the angle gave me a lurching
feeling in my gut and made me dizzy even while lying prone. I must
have finally drifted into a light doze only to wake to Gregory beside
me lightly brushing my hair from my cheek.
“You aren’t very relaxed,” he commented. “You kept twitching
as I watched you sleep.”
“I know. I don’t know why. This is the ideal place for an
afternoon nap. Maybe I am still uptight about destroying nearly
every book I’ve accumulated.”
“We’ll take care of it when get back to your house. Don’t give it
another thought,” he reassured me again as he stroked my hair away
from my face. He leaned in to kiss me, but a frantic voice carrying
down from the trail caused us both to sit up quickly. A huge, shaggy
silvery white dog lurched toward us, sending sprays of sand up
behind its churning legs.
Gregory got to his feet quickly, putting himself between the dog
and me protectively, but the dog slowed just as it approached us,
panting with its tail wagging wildly in peace.
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“Who are you?” Gregory asked the winded pooch as he kneeled
down and motioned the loping animal closer to us. Grateful to get
attention, the thick dog waddled closer and nuzzled up against
Gregory’s leg, knocking him backward onto the sand.
“Ivan!” A shrill voice carried over the sands as a woman
scrambled down the rocks with a thick, bright yellow braided leash
dangling from her hand. “I am so sorry,” she yelled as she trudged
through the tracks of her enormous dog. “He just slipped right out of
his collar,” she explained as she got closer to us. But Ivan had a
different idea. When she was near enough to grasp his scruff, he
skidded out of her reach playfully.
“Bad dog,” the woman scolded, exasperated as Ivan pounced
away at every attempt she made to get him back in his collar and
leash while Gregory got back on his feet.
Gregory watched with amusement, coaxing Ivan toward us
using the little bites of our lunch we didn’t finish earlier. Ivan stood
perplexed for a minute, torn between naughtiness and the potential
for a treat. He whimpered faintly, then dropped down on his front
paws and slithered toward us, pushing a mound of sand with his
furry chest with each inch he crept closer. Finally within reach
chomping down on the sandwich, Gregory playfully wrestled with
the enormous dog until his owner lassoed him with his collar again.
“I think I need something a little more escape-proof,” she said
with exasperation.
“Quite the Houdini, is he?” Gregory laughed, giving Ivan a
good-natured scold and an ear rub before he was led away. “You
behave now. It’s your job to protect her, not the other way around.”
Ivan’s soulful eyes connected with mine in wonderment.
“No,” Gregory clarified. “I protect this lady; you protect her,”
he said, motioning to his owner. Ivan looked back and forth, then
made a single nodding gesture with his furry, sand-caked beard and
turned obediently away, marching alongside his owner.
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hapter
The golden orb in the hazy sky was dropping far too fast for my
pleasure, and then he said the words I was dreading, “We should get
packed up and head out.”
“No. Can’t we stay to watch the sunset?” I pleaded.
“We could stay if we had packed five more layers and some
flashlights. Trust me. You’ll thank me once the fog comes rolling in.
The temperature is going to drop a good twenty or thirty degrees,
and we forgot to leave a bread crumb trail to get us back to the Jeep.”
I reluctantly packed up my things and trudged back up the
sloping hillside behind Gregory. As we drove away from the coast
through the canopy of trees lining the vein-thin roads, Gregory sang
along with every song on the radio. He knew most all of the lyrics,
but those he didn’t, he made up. It was good he had his heart set on
pursuits of writing, not a singing career, but his voice was sturdy
and comforting. As I watched him in the driver’s seat, belting out
improvised words, I felt so fortunate. His personality was the total
opposite of Joe, and it was such a release to be with someone so free
and self-assured. As Gregory continued to sing to me, I closed my
eyes so I could etch the images of the day into my memory.
The perfect day concluded with us finishing the book salvaging
after catching what we could glimpse of the sunset. The deck of the
cottage was situated so low, and trees obstructed most of the view to
the west. Then we worked on emptying the remaining boxes of
books, but the last one was ruined entirely and needed to be trashed.
“I can’t believe I’ve destroyed them,” I cried out again. “This
was sheer stupidity.”
“You didn’t know. This climate is a new experience for you,”
Gregory said. He seemed to know he couldn’t calm me down but
was trying to persuade me not find fault in myself.
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“I suppose, but it doesn’t solve this mess. It doesn’t even matter
what it costs to replace them; it’s the memories behind them that
matter,” I lamented as I threw six more books into the garbage can.
Gregory decided to give me some time to myself and offered to
make a grocery run and cook us dinner. He left me in a huddle
among the books as I stacked whatever heavy objects I could find on
them to flatten the covers and pages. As I watched his Jeep back out
of the drive, I was thankful for what felt like the hundredth time.
I hated to keep drawing comparisons, but Joe would probably
be planted in front of the television and leaving me to fix my own
mess, while Gregory was doing everything in his power to help.
Gregory was gone for nearly an hour and gave me adequate time to
mourn my books so I could spend the remainder of the evening
focused on him.
I inhaled the dusky smoke from the embers and coals while we
grilled a few steaks and built a billowing fire in the pit on the deck.
The night was playing out to perfection, just as the day had. We
were totally enraptured in conversation and flirtation even though
we were still politely tentative around each other. It didn’t escape me
how we devised a way to touch and interact in every possible
moment. Gregory grazed against me as I poured our glasses of wine.
I leaned into him as we inspected the charcoal, a seductive tension
was mounting. After we extinguished the fire, we moved inside and
sunk into the love seat. Our discussions had barely lapsed during
our meal, and while gazing at the leaping flames in the fire pit, we
seemed to have endless topics for conversation. We found yet
another commonality. He was one of all boys, and I, one of all girls.
We agreed there were positive and negatives being surrounded by
only same gender siblings.
I talked more about Constance and her upcoming production,
of which she was so proud. I wasn’t bold enough to ask him to be
my date since the opening night was months away, but I made sure I
dropped the date and location a few times in case he would express
interest. I was thoroughly disappointed when he made a motion to
leave as the clock moved on the downside of midnight.
Conversation with Gregory aroused me, so settling down to
sleep after a full day of exposure to him was next to impossible. I
desired him. I craved him. The pictures I could conjure behind my
eyelids were deliriously appealing. I felt nothing could intrude into
my personal bliss. But it was a short-lived sense of security.
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The work week took on a whole new level of interest for me.
Challenging work was mingled with meeting Gregory at the coffee
bar in the lobby. Distractions from projects and deadlines were
welcome when it involved receiving and responding to occasional emails
from him.
The library nook project was scheduled for the coming
weekend. I had invited Constance to come down to meet Gregory. It
was important to me that the two people who had become so pivotal
in shaping my new life meet. I respected her insight and expected
once she met him, she would only agree he was yet another positive
influence taking me in an entirely new direction, away from my
dreary, threadbare relationship with Joe.
Gregory arrived the following Saturday with a bag of bagels
and cream cheese. I was impressed how he took control of the
project, measuring and calculating the materials we would need. He
had brought his entire toolbox and a few miscellaneous supplies.
When we went to the hardware store for shelving, our errand was
tinged with a comfort level out of context for how short of time we’d
been together.
As we unloaded lumber, stain, and brackets, Constance walked
down the lane.
“The inspector has arrived,” she announced.
She didn’t wait for an introduction, and in true Constance
fashion, she greeted Gregory warmly with a heartfelt hug. Before we
started working on the shelves, we broke into the bag of bagels. I
brewed a fresh pot of coffee, and within minutes, the easy
conversation and laughter I had come to know so well with both of
them started flowing. I could tell Constance approved, not that it
would have mattered, but it validated my relationship with Gregory
wasn’t just a grand illusion. I was afraid she would reveal hints
about our multiple conversations about him, but she was on her best
behavior. When he got up to get the coffeepot to pour us a warm-up,
she raised one eyebrow slightly, smiled broadly, and gave me an
affirming nod.
After filling our cups, Gregory told Constance he had brought
something for her. He disappeared out the front door as she shot me
a questioning look.
“I have absolutely no idea,” I said in response.
Gregory returned with what looked like a picture frame. He
handed it to Constance as I strained to see what it was. She scanned
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it slowly, and then her face registered complete disbelief. She turned
it toward me. In the frame was a 1964 program from the same
theater where the ballet she was designing costumes for was going
to be performed. Constance was speechless.
Gregory said, “Since your ballet is a new production, I couldn’t
find a program for the same show, so I figured the theater was the
next best thing.”
“Where in the world did you find this?” she asked.
“Well, we do work in the media industry. Publishing isn’t too
far left of the arts,” he said. “Do you like it?”
“Are you kidding? This just earned the two of you front-row
tickets on opening night, mister,” she squealed as she hugged him
tightly.
“That was the plan all along,” he said as he wrapped an arm
around me and pulled me into the embrace.
“No criticism of the costume director allowed, however,” she
demanded jokingly with a flourish of her finger.
“I wouldn’t think of it. At least not to your face,” he said with
perfectly placed sarcastic humor.
The two of them were going to get along just splendidly.
Gregory had the natural knack to joke with people easily right from
the start. Constance stayed to help with the project for a few hours.
She had a mystery date later and was uncharacteristically closedlipped
about the man’s identity, but I didn’t force any details out of
her. I knew she would divulge when she felt it was right.
Shortly after she left, the phone rang right while I was helping
Gregory perform the leveling of the first shelf, so I couldn’t break
away to answer it. Within a few minutes, the phone rang again,
signaling Joe’s pattern of repetition, while anxiety pounded in my
heart.
“Must be important,” Gregory said, motioning with his head for
me to take the call.
“Probably just telemarketing,” I said. “For some reason I get a
ton of those calls.” My ability to devise quick lies with Joe kicked in.
I made an excuse to get us sodas, and while Gregory had his
back to me measuring the next section of shelves, I inconspicuously
turned the phone ringer off. Since it was a Saturday, I was very
afraid Joe might choose to drive down since I had ignored his calls
all week. I couldn’t imagine anything worse than Joe confronting me,
or worse, confronting Gregory. I failed to convince Gregory to
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abandon the shelf project, but the entire afternoon, I kept myself
situated where I could see through the front window so I could react,
just in case I saw Joe’s truck pull in.
The following day, needing a break after the long day of work
on the shelves, Gregory and I drove across the bay into San Francisco
to finish Christmas shopping. He arrived after an intense morning of
training, sore and fatigued. I had seen how hard he had worked on
the shelving units the day before. Worried I was causing too much of
a distraction from his commitment to training, I offered to postpone
the day of shopping.
He just gave me a peck on the forehead and simply said, “You
just let me worry about my schedule.”
As we set out across the Golden Gate Bridge, Gregory asked
who I had left to buy gifts for since we’d already shipped a box large
enough for a small country back to Colorado.
I told him my dilemma about finding the perfect gift for
Constance. Now that we were spending more time together, ideas
for Gregory were also swimming in my head. He asked about her
interests and tastes.
“I just want it to be something outstanding. To really convey
how much I appreciate her friendship. And now I have to compete
with the gift you got for her,” I said with a playfully reprimanding
look.
“What? You mean the ballet program? I had to do something
out of the ordinary to earn her approval. I wasn’t going to just win
her over on just my good looks,” he said with carefree laughter.
“You would have won her over with a paper bag on your
head.”
“What, no sarcastic comeback? You must be mad at me.”
“Not at all. I speak the truth.”
“That’s very sweet of you. But let’s not ruin the day with too
much mush,” he said with a wink.
“Never a chance of that,” I promised.
Our easy laughter was an appealing element of what was
developing between us.
Changing the subject back to the mission at hand, I said, “So
what else can I tell you about Constance other than her theatrical
talents?” I was having a hard time concentrating as the news reports
coming through the radio speakers were distracting my thoughts—a
murder in Chinatown, the killer still at large; an assault outside a
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popular bar, the suspect in custody; a major car accident creating a
massive traffic jam in Daly City.
“Would you mind if we turned on something a little more
soothing?” I asked. He agreed and switched the station to a soothing
jazz giving me immediate tension relief from the traumatic news
stories, and the ability to get back on track.
“Well, you’ve seen the cottage. That’s all her personal touch. I
mean, some of my things are in there, but the paintings, the lamps,
the furniture, those are all her. She’s done so much for me, I need
this gift to be spectacular and specific to her. I am so grateful to her,
her graciousness, her generosity, her friendship. It has to have
special meaning.”
I was rattling on more about the goal and not enough about her.
“And of course, we love to share a bottle of wine. But a great bottle
of wine just doesn’t seem like enough.”
Once I mentioned her love of wine, Gregory needed no more
information. He said he knew the perfect place in the heart of the
city. Gregory aptly negotiated the Jeep toward the perfect place he
knew about. We found street parking in the middle of an eclectic
block of storefronts.
As we got of his SUV, I smelled the distinctive aroma of chili
and curry. Next to the restaurant was a wooden doorway to a small
boutique. Entering the small shop was like walking into a new
world. The store was cramped, but the displays were magnificent;
sculptures, candelabras, glassware, and crystal were displayed
ceiling to floor. On every inch of wall space were ornamental
mirrors, wall hangings, sconces, and paintings. Dangling from the
ceiling were elaborate light fixtures, scarves, and lanterns. I smelled
the unmistakable odor of incense and a faint tint of clove cigarettes
and marijuana. Mystical music played in the background as we
browsed in the shop.
Gregory was completely engaged in helping me find the right
gift. I paid close attention to the things he gravitated toward. I loved
how every few steps he would touch my arm or take my hand to
show me something he thought was an appropriate idea. Suddenly,
our eyes fell on the same item at the same time. We looked at each
other and nodded in total agreement.
It was a coppery formation of a grapevine. Fine wires and
crystal beads were twisted together upward in the shape of the trunk
of the vine. Where the wires and beads branched outward, holders
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for twelve votive cups were welded on. I pictured the centerpiece
glowing bright in Constance’s dining room. “This is it. I’ve got to get
it,” I said without even seeing the price tag.
“That’s definitely it,” Gregory agreed. “I haven’t seen her place,
but if it’s anything like yours, it will be a perfect addition.”
Gregory gingerly picked up the centerpiece. It was an irregular
shape and nearly two feet high, but it was light enough for him to
carry. I checked the price inconspicuously when we got it to the
register counter. It was twenty-five dollars more than I had planned
to spend, but it was too ideal to pass up. The additional expense was
an investment in building a friendship and to show my appreciation
for her hospitality and generosity.
I couldn’t stop repeating “This is perfect” the rest of the day,
which was not only about the gift, but about the way I saw my life in
general. The perfect gift, on another perfect day, with the perfect
man.
Gregory and I decided to exchange our gifts at the cottage, the
night before he left to go home for Christmas. During our trip to the
boutique, I had seen him linger around an ornate vintage martini set,
so I had snatched a few business cards before we left so I could go
back and buy it for him. The following week, I ventured over to the
Triangle District after work. I wished I had paid more attention
when Gregory had taken me there. I ended up passing the storefront
multiple times before I finally found my way there, like a mouse in a
maze of one-way streets and alleys.
I was frazzled by the time I inched my car forward then
backward, then forward, then backward what seemed like seventeen
times into the only parking place I could find, still three blocks away
from the boutique. I worried the etched sterling shaker and silverrimmed
crystal glasses would be gone, but they had waited for me to
return. The stir sticks included in the set had tiny blown glass olives
at the tips I hadn’t noticed before. They amused me immensely for
some reason.
I made the drive back to the Marin side of the bay, then stopped
at the liquor store just off Paradise Drive. The price for the top-shelf
vodka was more alarming than the price of the centerpiece, but I
knew Gregory would appreciate it. I hoped he didn’t already own a
martini set. He had come to my place on our dates, so I hadn’t been
to his place to know what he had already, but I still took the gamble
he didn’t have one.
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The night we exchanged gifts followed a strenuous day at work,
but I had enough energy left to prepare an extravagant dinner. It was
Wednesday, but the last day of work for the week since Christmas
was falling on Friday and our company was graciously giving us
Christmas Eve off as a bonus. The short workweek had been a muchneeded
break for me.
My office life had been incrementally more challenging in the
previous weeks since Richard had given me more responsibility with
the CardioStar advertising crisis. I had given the project my heart
and soul, and while it was hard work, my days were whipping by
with my preoccupation with research and meetings. My dedication
to delivering my best work didn’t go unnoticed. I had presented my
final recommendations earlier in the day, and it was a resounding
success. Richard made a point in the meeting to acknowledge my
hard work and innovation in the final recommendation to the
leadership team, leaving me simply radiating with pride. My life
was more on track than ever before.
Uplifted by my accomplishments at work, I was also infected
with the spirit of the holiday like never before, my mood light and
festive. Constance had brought down a wreath for my door, and she
had strung a series of white lights in the bushes that framed the
deck, adding a much-needed glow to the dark area.
Unlike the exterior, there was little holiday décor inside the
cottage, a few Christmas cards from family and friends propped
around, but I had bought a new selection of Christmas CDs for my
collection and played them every waking moment.
An unexpected box was waiting for me on the porch when I
arrived home from work the day before. I shook every gift as I
removed them with the eagerness of a child, creating a stack in my
cozy reading room since I didn’t have a Christmas tree. Old
girlfriends from home had been calling out of the blue giving me a
renewed connection to the friends I feared I had alienated while I
was dating Joe. I was confident broadcasting the news about
breaking up with Joe and answered all their objections with the
appropriate level of detail, but without delving into all of the
painful, embarrassing details.
It didn’t seem the right time to mention Gregory yet. But I was
able to assure them, with conviction, it was all for the best and
changed the subject to all the great things happening in my life. I
believed I was going to have the most memorable Christmas ever.
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After changing out of my business suit, and a quick shower, I
applied fresh makeup and realized I didn’t need to spend extra time
trying to make my eyes appear brighter. I added only the lightest
iridescent shadow to my eyelids; the blue of my irises gleamed
enough on their own. The distance from Joe was doing wonders for
me. I slipped on a simple, sexy heather blue dress that felt like
cashmere against my dewy skin.
The steam from the shower created gentle waves in my hair. I
pulled a few sections away from my face and fastened them with a
butterfly clasp, letting the rest curl into wisps around my neck and
face. I added a simple silver chain and, though I didn’t want to
overdo the look, added my grandmother’s diamond studs I knew
would sparkle as we sat by the fire.
I had prepared most of what I could the night before, so there
wasn’t a lot of work left to do until Gregory arrived. After I tossed
the salad and put the bread in the oven, I switched the CD in the
player to a new holiday compilation. As the piano-and-harp version
of “It Came Upon a Midnight Clear” filled the cottage, I lit every
candle in the room. I crumpled newspaper in the bin next to the
fireplace and inserted it under the logs in the grate. The paper was
slow to ignite, but once it did, the flames licked upward, curling the
paper inward as it ate its way toward the logs.
After I washed the sooty black from my hands, I opened a bottle
of corked wine in the refrigerator from the night before and poured a
partial glass. I dimmed the lights in the main room and moved to the
love seat. I laid my head back against the cushion and watched the
reflection from the fire dancing on the ceiling as a sense of complete
contentment washed through me. The comforting aroma of baking
bread permeated the expanse of the cottage.
I wasn’t spending the holiday with Gregory because he was
flying home to be with his family, but I didn’t let it disappoint me.
The pace of things between us was ideal and the anticipation of
everything to come was manageable.
My emotion switched gears from contentment to thrill when I
saw the headlights of Gregory’s Jeep through the front window.
Now that he had arrived, it was safe for me to silence the phone
ringer to prevent any undesired interruption by Joe. When I opened
the door, Gregory was standing there with a monstrous box bound
with a large bow and wide ribbon. I tried to take it from him.
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“Oh no,” he said. “No way in hell could you possibly handle
this.” He navigated past me and carefully placed the glittering
package on the coffee table. “And there’s more!” he exclaimed before
he removed his coat. “Wait here. Close the door. No peeking
outside!” He was positively bursting with excitement as he ducked
out of the front door with a sly grin.
More than a few minutes later, Gregory knocked softly at the
front door. I opened it to find him hoisting a three-foot Christmas
tree glistening with tinsel and ornaments.
“To make the occasion complete,” he pronounced as he
gestured to the tree with the finesse of a game show hostess
presenting a contestant with the grand prize.
“This is priceless, Gregory.” I was overjoyed. I hadn’t found the
time to get a tree, and even if I had, I wasn’t interested in making a
trip to retrieve my holiday boxes from Geoff and Angie’s place.
There had been a missing element to my holiday mood, and the frail
little tree, adorned by Gregory’s hands, filled the gap I hadn’t been
able to pinpoint. While Gregory struggled to get the tree inside,
cautious not to dislodge any ornaments or bulbs, I dragged an end
table to the railing that overlooked the bedroom.
“Don’t you want it in the front window?” he asked.
“Now who is going to see it in the front window other than
Constance?” I suggested. “I would much prefer it here, and then I
can see it from the bedroom below.”
We placed the tree carefully on the small table and plugged in
the lights. Diminutive as it was, the lights were spectacular for its
size. Gregory had wrapped a full string around the perimeter of the
tree and trailed the excess around the trunk. A myriad of mini
replicas of the tiny tree reflected from the panes of the upper
windows, illuminating the cottage in a warm glow. We stood, gazing
at the reflections like proud parents as music filled the room, and my
heart soared with happiness.
When we couldn’t ignore our hunger any longer, Gregory
immediately pitched in to help me finish our dinner, grilling the
vegetables and salmon steaks while I chopped blue cheese and
walnuts for the salads. When the CD started a second rotation of
songs, he danced over to the stereo, singing “Joy to the World” at his
full pitch and chose a fresh disc.
I was glad he had no reservations around me and was feeling so
comfortable in the cottage. Just before we were about to serve up the
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dinner, he skillfully uncorked a rich bottle of sauvignon blanc and
poured full glasses for us. But for once, he was stumped on an
appropriate toast.
“Everything I can think of seems so bland and predictable,” he
said, sounding slightly annoyed with himself.
“My wordsmith at a loss for words? This is unimaginable,” I
replied.
“Sad, but true,” he said.
He actually seemed to have something to say, but seemed more
secretive than normal. It worried me, so I interjected with my own
toast. “To another memorable evening,” I said.
“To another memorable evening,” he concurred with a light
kiss on my cheek before he raised his glass.
“Everything okay?” I asked as I got plates from the cupboard.
“Sure. I’m just a little worn out getting ready for my trip home,”
he replied. “The extra training I worked in this week to compensate
for the holiday has been grueling.” He was studying the wine in his
glass far too seriously as he leaned against the kitchen counter.
“I promise you we’ll make it an early night so you can get
enough sleep before your flight in the morning,” I said, not showing
a hint of the reluctance I felt about my offer.
He took the plates from my hands, and kissed me sweetly on
the cheek and told me I was the most understanding woman he had
ever known. Gregory was much quieter than usual during our
dinner, but I just attributed it to the drain of his week. He seemed
subdued and contemplative. I wanted to share the news of the
success of my project presentation, but his mood made the timing
not seem right. I didn’t want to push the issue of why he seemed so
remote, so I suggested opening our gifts right after we finished our
meal. He wanted to clear our plates first, but I told him I would take
care of the dishes and clean up afterward.
We moved to the love seat, and Gregory was insistent I open
my gift first. He pushed the large box on the coffee table closer to
me. I gently peeled off the glistening white ribbon and bow and
carefully peeled the tape off the silver wrap. When I lifted the lid of
the box, I couldn’t believe what was inside.
The box was filled with books; each title that stared up at me
was a replacement for the ones we had been unable to salvage; a
worn and tattered copy of The Hunchback of Notre Dame, the thickly
bound Anna Karenina, ten Shakespearean tragedies, Three Sisters by
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Chekhov, and Hemingway’s, A Moveable Feast. There were over
twenty-five books, all of which were among the fatalities from my
move.
“This is too much. You did too much.” I was speechless.
“I had a little help. My parents both work at USC. You would
be surprised at the resources they have to track down quality
literature. I knew these would be the most complicated to find and
replace.”
“This is the most touching thing anyone has ever done for me.”
“Well, as we went through your books, you spoke of nearly
each and every title by the course or instructor or the person who
had given it to you. Your stories were more about the memories
around each book than the book itself. I just hope you’ll remember
these new ones with equal enthusiasm.”
“You can be sure of that,” I whispered through my tears.
“Hey. What’s wrong?”
“I can’t believe you did this. I don’t even know what to say. I’m
speechless. It’s touching and sweet and generous. And I just…No
one has ever done anything this special for me. Ever.”
“Hey, don’t” he said, brushing away my tears lightly. “It’s not
like I went out and got everyone to inscribe them again for you. I
mean, I do have some flaws.”
I almost didn’t want Gregory to open his gift. After what he had
done, my gift seemed far less meaningful and poignant. But he
seemed genuinely pleased with the martini set, noticing I must have
trekked back to the boutique to get if for him.
The night ended with me falling asleep in his arms in front of
the fire. Gregory gently nudged me awake shortly after midnight. I
didn’t want him to leave, but knew he had an early morning flight.
Our kiss at the door was passionate, and I wondered how I would
tolerate ten days without him.
It had been just over three weeks since we had met, and while
days passed without talking early on, lately we’d had some level of
interaction on a daily basis, whether grabbing a quick lunch, meeting
for coffee in the lobby, talking on the phone, or exchanging e-mails. I
held back the urge to ask when I might hear from him while he was
away, but the question was nearly screaming at him from my heart.
As I shut the door, I felt oddly melancholy. I glanced at the
dishes and didn’t think twice about letting them sit until morning. I
extinguished the fire and blew out the stubs of the candles that had
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burned down in their holders. I wanted holiday music to lull me into
my blissful sleep, so I turned on a local station playing only sounds
of the season. I slept soundly the entire night, waking refreshed and
welcoming a few days with no obligations at work but dreading
Gregory’s absence.
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hapter
With Gregory out of town, Constance had invited me to her
“orphans” celebration on Christmas Day. I feared Joe was going to
terrorize me with calls leading up until the very day demanding I
spend the holiday with him, and I called it dead-on. I let most of his
calls go right to voice mail and felt a sense of accomplishment when
he didn’t leave messages. Certainly he knew that I would see his
number on caller ID and wasn’t picking up the phone for that very
reason. Some days I worried that might provoke him even more, but
thus far, he had maintained a relatively harmless and purely passive
pursuit to get me back.
On Christmas Eve, I spent the day in my cottage finishing the
novel Gregory had given me on our first date. I had planned to make
myself a great dinner, but the simplicity of something light was far
too appealing, and it was much easier to just graze on leftovers from
my dinner with Gregory the night before. My parents called and
didn’t even try to disguise their concern about me being alone on a
holiday. Despite assuring them I was looking forward to spending
the day with Constance and her friends, I was bothered they
couldn’t hear the happiness in my voice. I was as reluctant with
them, as with my girlfriends and coworkers, that it wasn’t the time
to drop the bomb about a new relationship yet. They hadn’t known
Joe very well when we lived back in Colorado, especially since he
usually only wanted to spend time with his friends, but when we
did get together, he always put on a respectful guise around them, so
they didn’t know anything about his true nature. My parents were
all about settling into the traditional roles of husband and wife. For
their generation, marriage was about making a living, providing a
home, and having a family. Support, validation, and reciprocity
were unknown concepts to them, but crucial requirements for me.
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Joe made reasonable money in his work, enough to provide for a
wife and children, at least, so it was a suitable match in their eyes.
They didn’t know how often he directed his anger at me. They
definitely didn’t know about my miscarriage. I felt guilty for not
revealing the truth about Joe’s temper earlier in our relationship. To
reveal it now seemed useless and would only make them worry
about me even more.
My oldest sister called me shortly before sunset. As we talked
about the generalities of our lives, I walked out onto the deck. Glints
of sunshine were streaming through the trees. The wind was calm,
an eerie calm. The sky was turning a brilliant purplish-pinkish hue. I
couldn’t see the actual sunset because of the obstructions from the
depth of the cottage. I tried to walk up the driveway toward the
street to see if I could get a better glimpse, but I was losing the signal
on the phone. Something was compelling me to see the sunset, so I
told my sister I needed to call her back. I snatched my car keys off
the kitchen table, and before I knew it, I was driving west on
Paradise Drive, chasing the sunset. The mountains on the other side
of the freeway continued to block my view of the sun descending.
A glance at the digits on the dashboard showed I had little time
left before the sun would sink into the water’s edge. The sky was
etched with purple and pink clouds shredding apart before my eyes
against the deepening blue background, magnifying the intensity of
the colors of the setting sun. I kept up my chase of the setting sun
with unusual urgency. Since I couldn’t make it to the beach, I
improvised and cut over to Highway 101 and headed south toward
the Golden Gate Bridge. I drove wildly and made the final exit
before the bridge, just as the dazzling colors of the sky faded.
Laughing at myself, I pulled a U-turn and headed back to the
cottage.
Christmas Eve concluded with me curled in front of a roaring
fire, making my way through the last and extremely complicated
chapters of Surfacing. Gregory had made the right assessment of the
book. It was a compelling but complex read. It wasn’t easy content,
so I found myself reading some sections over and over just to
comprehend the story, but other sections I reread just to savor the
pure talent in the author’s writing style. I stayed up long after
midnight, absorbed in the book, so when I finally made my way to
bed, I dropped onto the mattress, too tired to even take my clothes
off, and fell asleep instantaneously.
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I woke in a tangle of clothes Christmas morning, surprised I
hadn’t woken during the night to shed them. Not ready to get up, I
struggled out of my shirt and pants, but stayed snuggled in the
warm blankets as I stared up at the leaves blowing outside the
windows overhead. Still unaccustomed to a Christmas without
snow, I hoped for at least some rain or gusty winds to give the day
some character. Relieved I didn’t have to face the traditional family
gathering, it was also going to be the first Christmas without Joe in
three years and another reason to feel relieved. The calls from home
the day before gave me only a fleeting tinge of homesickness. I
didn’t dwell on what the day might be like with family, or worse,
being with Joe. I was looking forward to spending the holiday with
Constance and her friends. Life was delivering so many new
experiences, and this was yet another evolution in my growth. Not
subscribing to the traditional holiday escapades of Sunday morning
Mass, opening gifts in front of the tree, and enduring a prolonged,
boring Christmas dinner was going to be a cathartic escape.
I tried to picture Gregory’s parents’ house. I imagined a large
home, elegantly decorated, vibrant with the voices of three sons who
were now men. I had made it through a full day without talking to
him, but I didn’t prefer it. I wanted to call him to wish him a
wonderful holiday, but I didn’t want to call at an inappropriate time
and disturb him during his time with his family. It was safest to let
him call me when the time was right. I hoped I would hear from him
before he returned home. Not seeing him for over a week was going
to be difficult enough, but not talking was going to be unbearable.
When we said goodnight by the door after our gift exchange, I
wished he would have mentioned when he would call me, but it
wasn’t his style. He always left me with a certain degree of
expectation and wondering. And here I was again, left with only my
hopes of when he would reach out to me and whether it would be
before he returned after the New Year. Thoughts about my last night
with Gregory put me into a lazy trance, and I dozed off for a while
before I got up and started my daily ritual with the coffeemaker.
I drank the first mug in front of my treasured tiny tree, nearly
obscured by the gifts sent from home and the stacks of books from
Gregory. Being alone took most of the excitement out of tearing into
the packages, so I opened each one slowly and deliberately. My
sisters had each gotten me sweaters, one cream turtleneck, a deep
midnight blue V-neck, and the third a beautiful pale green with
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crystal buttons. Mom had chosen a contemporary literary novel by
David Mamet. She had also sent me a warm pajama set in a rich
maroon-and-gold floral pattern, a definite surprise, as we rarely
shared the same sense of taste in designs. Dad had picked a pair of
delicate silver earrings for me that were stunning. He had a subtle
way of knowing exactly the perfect style for each of the many
women in his life despite his gruff exterior. It was ironic how their
gifts were more in tune with my tastes than ever before even with
the distance so much greater.
I wanted to give Constance her gift without distraction, so after
I made calls home to thank everyone for the gifts, I headed up a little
earlier than she had suggested. As I walked up the drive toward her
house, the morning sun filtered through the remaining wilted leaves
that held on, stubbornly refusing to fall to their death. It was a mild
day, and would only have been made better by a cloak of new fallen
snow with translucent edges shimmering in the sunlight. There was
no way to wrap the centerpiece, so I had to figure out how to get it
into her house without her seeing it first. I disguised it in the bushes
that bordered her front porch. I hoped she wasn’t finished getting
ready so I could sneak back out for it while she was dressing or
doing her makeup
Constance opened the door with a frantic look in her eyes and
erratically motioned me in. “Thank God you’re early! This place is a
disaster. I’ll never get it all together by the time everyone gets here.
Help. Please,” she begged, looking positively frazzled. The house
was in total chaos and completely uncharacteristic for her. The
normal aura of harmony in her home was disrupted. The
countertops were strewn with every imaginable vegetable, cracker
boxes, cheese blocks, bread, and multiple bottles of wine and liquor.
The dining room table had a heap of tablecloths, place mats, and
napkins amid various types of serving bowls and platters. Constance
was racing around the kitchen, flustered. She hurled about thirteen
instructions at me, so I grabbed a knife and started chopping
potatoes with a vengeance. It was a mad frenzy, but together we
plowed through the preparation of the feast. I got the chance to bring
in the centerpiece when Constance left me to dress the dining room
table as she dressed herself. It wasn’t a holiday motif, but I placed it
square in the middle of the table anyway. I knew she could switch it
out for something more fitting for a holiday meal, but it seemed too
perfect of a way for her to see it for the first time. Her squeal of
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delight when she returned to the room confirmed I had truly found
the perfect gift for her. I only wished Gregory was there to see the
look in her eyes and how she studied the vines of the sculpture,
fascinated by its intricacy. I pictured us sharing many more bottles of
wine as we relayed new experiences in our lives in the candlelight of
the centerpiece.
“It’s not exactly right for today,” I offered, “so we can use the
centerpiece you planned to use.”
“Nonsense,” she said. “We can just weave some metallic ribbon
through the vines, and it will be ideal for today. It’s going to be
gorgeous once all these votives are lit.”
Constance went over to the tree and selected a small package
that she brought to me. The wrap was a shimmering red with a
massive translucent crimson bow that looked too beautiful to rip
open. I carefully slid my nails under the tape on each end to release
the adhesion. It was a copy of Love Story.
“I don’t know if it’s one of the books that you had that got
ruined, but it just seemed too poetic,” she said. “Other than the fact
it’s a tragic love story.” But I hugged her all the same.
“But that’s not all.” Her eyes glistened with excitement as she
pulled a large canvas out from behind the dining table. “I made you
this.” She hoisted the canvas onto the table and spun it around. It
was an incredible abstract painting, with heavy circular strokes of
crimson red bordered by a soothing buttery gold, with massive
splashes of a deep midnight blue.
“It’s stunning,” I complimented after studying the piece. Her
creative talent extended into so many realms. Her invested effort in
creating a painting just for me was beyond flattering.
“I’m honored you created this for me. Are there any boundaries
to your talents?”
“Ah, art is just a hobby.”
“A hobby that showcases how incredibly talented you are,” I
replied.
I hugged her tightly. Of all the friends I had had in my lifetime,
I had known Constance the least amount of time, but she knew me
better than any of them. She understood me. She saw into me. She
inspired me to reach new potential for myself. I saw things in her I
wanted to emulate; her passion and enthusiasm to create and design
made me aware I had ignored my own creative desires far too long.
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The doorbell ringing through the room interrupted my
thoughts and sent us back into dinner preparation mode. The set
designer and his wife were the first to arrive, but within minutes the
room was bustling with three more bodies from her theater
connections, and a gay couple who lived in the cinnamon-colored
town house further down the bend on Paradise Drive. Her new
seamstress and her boyfriend arrived just as we were arranging the
serving platters on the dining table. I was enraptured hearing all of
their stories about the inner workings and behind-the-scenes
processes of the theater, the actors, the sets, the costumes, the music,
all the mechanics I had had no concept operated behind the curtains.
I had yet to attend a professional performance, as my experience had
been limited to high school plays and college outdoor theater. Joe
had never had any interest in the theater, either for the price tag of
tickets or the artistry.
Illuminated by the gorgeous centerpiece, we consumed a
satisfying meal of prime rib, French rolls, creamed spinach, twicebaked
potatoes, and ended with the obligatory pie. Afterward, we
moved to the front room, carrying our energetic discussion with us,
as Constance circulated, refilling glasses of wine and spirits. I was
the lone person from the business world, not from the arts, but I
didn’t feel like an outsider. It was turning out to be a truly
memorable Christmas for me.
“So Alicia’s got a hot new man in her life. He’s sumptuous,”
Constance announced to the group.
“Constance, please!” I said with a warning look. I wasn’t ready
to divulge anything about myself to a group of people I’d just met.
“You should see these two together. They are positively
sickening. They look at each other with these adoring eyes, oblivious
to anything around them. I would kill to have a man look at me like
he does with Alicia!” she told the group with a wink my direction.
“And look what he gave me when we first met!” She produced
the framed ballet program, provoking applause from her guests.
“Now is this guy out for a woman’s heart or what?”
While her colleagues admired the framed program, Constance
went back to the kitchen and returned swiftly to deliver a tray of
freshly filled, bubbling flutes of champagne. I tried to give the group
an abbreviated version of meeting Gregory, but I kept drifting into
more detail than I planned to share. Uncomfortable dominating the
conversation, I steered the topic back to their upcoming
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performance. The hours flew by, and I scarcely had time to miss
Gregory. I especially enjoyed talking to Samuel, the set designer. He
was an elegant man with silver hair that swirled back from his
forehead in a manicured wave. He wore a distinguished charcoal
wool blazer and a silver crest tie tack and spoke eloquently in a deep
baritone voice that projected strength.
It was well past midnight when I finally straggled home. I was
pleasantly surprised to find a message from Gregory breaking up the
series left by Joe. His voice sounded so soothing yet exciting in
comparison to Joe’s frantic pleas. His message said he expected me
to be up at Constance’s very late and would call again later. I went to
bed with my phone clutched against my chest, anxious to hear his
voice to complete my memorable Christmas Day.
Finally, the shrill of the ring jolted me awake, but it was a
welcome shock to the system. It was shortly after 1:00 a.m. but
Gregory and I talked for nearly an hour, sharing highlights of our
days. When Gregory asked if I would spend New Year’s Eve with
him if he came back early, it fired off every sensation my body was
capable of producing.
I moved through the next few days of work between Christmas
and New Year’s like walking on a cloud until the day Gregory was
expected to return. As I prepared for a quiet New Year’s Eve at home
with Gregory, I called to invite Constance to come down, and she
said she’d be happy to drop down for a champagne toast. “But I
wouldn’t dream of ruining this special night for the two of you.
Besides, Samuel set me up on a blind date with his nephew who’s in
town for the week.”
I didn’t protest. I was thirsty for another night alone with
Gregory. The phone had rung sporadically throughout the day, but
each time the caller ID displayed the unwelcome number of Joe’s cell
phone. I didn’t want to turn off the ringer until the last possible
second in case Gregory’s flight had been delayed. He had only been
able to book an evening flight back from Southern California, so I
didn’t expect him until nearly 10:30 p.m. When I saw the
heartwarming glow of his headlights coming down the drive, nearly
an hour earlier than I expected, it meant he hadn’t even taken the
time to drop by his house on the way to see me. He whisked me into
his arms before I barely had the door open.
“I missed you so much,” he whispered sweetly as he held me
tight. After our welcoming kisses and embraces, I didn’t want to
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break away, but I knew the earlier we had Constance down, the
longer I would have with him alone later in the night. We called her,
but she seemed giddy and distracted.
“Oh, I entirely forgot you asked me to come down.” I heard a
muffled, masculine voice in the background. “We might be down
later.” Just before the line went dead, I heard her giggling moan.
Obviously, this blind date was going much better than the previous
ones.
“How long do we wait for them?” Gregory asked.
“I’m not quite sure,” I replied as I reached into the fridge and
pulled out a bottle in each hand to proudly display. “But that’s the
beauty of having two bottles of champagne to crack open.”
“You’re a genius,” he said with a smile. He moved to look out
the front window. “Do we dare try out on the deck? There’s a bit of a
chill.”
“I think I can handle it if you can.”
“Let me get this,” Gregory said as he took the champagne
bottles from me. He nodded his head. “Go get some warm clothes
on, and I’ll meet you outside.”
I flew down the stairs and piled on another layer of socks and
another sweater. When I slipped outside, Gregory was staring
upward at the night sky, radiant from the cast of the city lights. His
handsome profile took my breath away. He didn’t even struggle
releasing the cork. It popped its signature sound seamlessly.
Gregory chose the toast. “To an incredible New Year. May it
bring us experiences that are beyond our wildest dreams.”
“To a truly appropriate toast,” I returned.
After our first sips, Gregory deftly took the glass from my hand
and placed both flutes on the side table. He slipped one arm around
my waist and clasped my hand in a ballroom pose.
“Do you want to dance?” he sang sweetly into my ear. “Do you
want to dance? And hold my hand? Tell me I’m your lover man.”
Bette Midler could match his singing skills, but she certainly
couldn’t match his seductive skills. We danced in the moonlight as
he sang the entire tune with the sultry style of a ’60s crooner. We
swayed in the dark a little longer, but the lure of building a roaring
fire inside won out.
Without warning, Gregory asked, “So didn’t you say once that
you had a dog named Vincent? What’s the story there?”
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I had hoped he had forgotten about my ill-timed comment I
made the first night we had met. I wondered how I could spin that
story. Something within told me not to add a depressing element to
the evening and tell him the story of Vincent, who had escaped on a
snowy night because one of my sisters hadn’t latched the backyard
gate and was hit by a car. Instead, I just focused the story on how my
oldest sister had adopted that particular stray, which was one of a
few that we had in our household.
“But why would you ever name a dog Vincent? Isn’t Scout or
Duke or Rocky or Buster a little more common?” Gregory wondered.
“I can’t take any credit for naming him. He was my oldest
sister’s dog. She named all of our dogs after her old boyfriends,” I
laughed. “At one point we had four dogs she had taken in. God
knows how my dad ever allowed it, but we had Vincent, Andy,
Ricky, and Bobby running around.”
“That’s hilarious. I’ll have to remember that. I’ve got a few exgirlfriends
who I might have related to better as a dog.”
Our entire night was a prelude to making love. There was no
disguising what was about to happen between us. In subtleties
throughout the night, Gregory commented on the depth and
meaning of what was happening between us. It was a verbal
foreplay more potent than any touch. As we sat in front of the fire,
he clasped my hands into a bridge with his.
“Alicia,” he said seductively, “it’s only been a few weeks, but
I’ve never connected with any woman on the level I connect with
you. We haven’t even made love, but in so many ways, we’ve been
intimate since the night you fell into my path.” He stopped and
studied the ceiling as if his next words were projected on it like a
script. But then he broke his gaze and looked into my eyes with an
intensity and seriousness I rarely saw in him. “I feel this is what we
both want, but in my mind, there’s no turning back. Once we take
this step, we’re committed, we’re a couple, and we’ll be involved to a
new degree. I just want us both to be sure this what we both want.”
I was impressed he cared enough to have that conversation
with me. Other men might have leapt into bed without concern
about my feelings or expectations. It meant this wasn’t just sex. It
meant a lot more. Before our discussion, I’d imagined, I’d dreamed,
I’d yearned to make love to him. There was
absolutely no doubt in my mind I wanted to feel him inside me.
Yet I allowed his words to have the gravity they deserved.
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“I know, Gregory. I know things have moved fast, and it’s
frightening.” I chose different words. “Not frightening, but eerie
how we have connected on this level. The similarities, the ease of our
relationship, how we complement each other. But I am certain. With
all my heart, I am certain.”
Then we made love for the first time.
It was magical and indescribably intimate.
Afterward, we kept dozing off, but every few minutes broke the
silence with words. I wanted to sleep, but the childish notion if I fell
asleep it would erase the memory, kept me from slipping into a
peaceful sleep. Despite my fight, I finally slept. Being safe in
Gregory’s arms was pure bliss.
Shortly before sunrise, Gregory stirred. I hoped he wasn’t going
to get up and go train. “You’re not leaving, are you?” I murmured as
I nuzzled deeper into his arms.
“Leaving? Are you crazy?” he responded.
“I know there’s no rest for the weary when training for a
triathlon,” I said.
“Yes, that’s true. But I’m not a complete idiot. A warm bed. A
luscious woman. The chance for another bout of lovemaking—do
you think I’m out of my mind?”
“Right answer.”
“I just need some water. What can I bring you?”
“Water would be good,” I replied.
As Gregory bounded up the stairs, I watched his naked body,
amazed. His legs rippled as his muscles propelled him upward. His
solid physique, the arc on each side of his torso leading up to
powerful shoulders, he was a massive man, but with a tender heart. I
closed my eyes and whispered a few words of gratitude to the angels
who I believed had brought us together. For once, I felt good fortune
had finally fallen on me.
Gregory was back at the bedside with a large glass of water.
“We should have turned on the heat. The floor is like ice,” he said as
he slid under the sheets and comforter, handing me the glass. “And
speaking of heat…” he said as he stroked his fingers along the length
of my exposed inner thigh. We made love again, just as the first
bursts of sunshine began peeking through the overhead windows.
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“This is exactly the type of thing to make me look forward to
sunrise more,” I said after he released inside of me.
New Year’s Day felt just like home. Gregory and I slept soundly
after our daybreak lovemaking. I was not hung-over from the
champagne, but light-headed knowing the level of our relationship
had just escalated to a new degree. Gregory’s hair, raven against the
stark white pillowcase, was rumpled from the night, and I stroked
his thick, sleek waves. He rolled toward me and swept me
underneath him.
“Morning,” he murmured coarsely. “What a spectacular way to
start the New Year.”
I was in total agreement. “If we don’t move from this bed all
day long, I won’t be upset.”
“Other than coffee and a bit of sustenance, I would agree,” he
said as we fell into another round of passionate kissing for a few
minutes until I tried to get out of bed.
“Where do you think you’re going?” he said, pulling me
playfully back onto him.
“You mentioned coffee,” I said.
“Oh no you don’t, I’ll make it.”
Singing in the kitchen, the sound of Gregory’s voice filled the
airy room and inspired complete contentment in me. I lay in the
cavernous bed, gazing around my perfect little cottage, and thought
that life couldn’t be more perfect.
Suddenly Gregory’s face appeared over the railing. “Too cold to
sit out on the deck, but I could start a fire if you like?”
“I would like,” I yelled back up.
I snuck out of the bed and into the bathroom for a little makeup
touch-up, careful to apply only enough to make it still appear
somewhat natural. Instead of grabbing my fluffy robe from the hook
behind the door, I chose my satiny ivory chemise set from my
lingerie drawer and headed up the stairs.
“No fair,” Gregory said when I slid up behind him in the
kitchen. “All I’ve got is yesterday’s clothes, and you have this sexy
attire.”
“Well, next time you’ll know to pack for the following day I
suppose,” I suggested.
“Now there’s a thought,” he replied as he kissed me sweetly on
the forehead. “However, I do have my bags from my trip in the Jeep,
so I’m actually not in too bad of shape for later today.”
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We drank our coffee in front of the fireplace, sparks crackling
and spitting. The burning oak that permeated the room triggered
memories of cold winters back home. But the memory of this
morning was a better image I wanted to engrave in my mind.
“This is a new experience for me. Other than a vacation or two,
I’ve never lived anywhere you needed a fireplace,” Gregory told me.
I asked him about his life growing up in Southern California.
He talked about his love of the ocean and the sunshine. The climate
he described was a much different picture than what we had in the
Bay Area, where the skies often dimmed with fog, and the cold on
certain days could cut through to the bone. I probed a bit to find out
whether he planned on going back to Southern California one day.
Unlike me, Gregory moved here specifically for the job, and I knew
rough times were coming for his publication and feared if it went
under, he might not want to stay around.
It felt deceitful not being able to tell him Trails might be in
jeopardy, and possibly his job, but it was too soon yet to know how
he would take the news and what he might do. I didn’t want to put
my own job at risk if I revealed privileged information. Worse,
Gregory might leave me and go back to Southern California, which
wasn’t a chance I was willing to take.
We had an easy day lounging by the fire, me reading the book
he had chosen for me, and he working diligently on his writing. I
occasionally suspended my reading and peered at him over the
horizon of the pages of my book. His brow was clenched. He seemed
to be struggling. Eventually, our eyes met as he caught me watching
him.
“Writer’s block,” he said. “Your presence is distracting. Not
good for concentration.” I offered to move over to the love seat, but
he refused. “Some days the words just don’t come freely. I’ll just
switch to editing what I’ve already written. That will feel like some
level of progress.” Then he winked at me and said, “But if this
doesn’t work, I’ll be taking you back down to that bed to inspire
some creative juices.”
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hapter
The following weekend, Gregory invited me to his house for the
first time. I found it easily, after driving along the waterfront,
fighting the tourist traffic the entire route. The minute I stepped
inside, I was awed by the floor-to-ceiling shelves of books that lined
a nook set off to the left of the doorway.
“Well it certainly doesn’t have the charm of your place. But it’s
functional, clean, and near the water,” he said almost apologetically.
“No, it’s great. It suits you.”
To the left of the step down from the entryway, there was an
oversized, outdated school office desk overflowing with papers,
journals, and books.
“I knew you were passionate about your writing, but this is a
little more than I expected to find.”
He quickly started to rearrange the mountain of pages bursting
from the desk, but papers floated to the floor. As I stooped to help
him retrieve them, my eyes landed on various segments of his work.
I asked if he would share any of his stories with me, and regretted
asking the question when he hesitated.
“I’m not ready for criticism yet,” he said.
“I wouldn’t criticize. I like your writing,” I replied.
He looked at me, confused.
“I read some issues of Trails,” I confessed. I felt like a rock star
groupie, as juvenile as if I had taped posters of him onto my
bedroom wall.
“I’m flattered. But that’s entirely different. Article writing is
formulaic in some ways. You know, the who, what, when, where,
and why. Novel writing is much more from your core.”
“That’s why I want to read your work,” I told him. “But only
when you’re ready.”
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Then I dropped the topic and made it a point not to show my
disappointment the rest of the night.
The next evening, Constance and I had plans for dinner. We
had hoped to have dinner at her favorite Italian restaurant on the
bay in Sausalito, but the rain was whipping down. I much preferred
to remain in the comfort and warmth of the cottage, but I braved the
torrential rain. When I arrived on her doorstep, I was drenched
despite my raincoat and umbrella. Constance opened the door to a
sopping wet mess clutching my requisite bottle of wine.
In the blink of an eye, she had some lush towels for me to
absorb my drenched hair. She motioned me to the bathroom to peel
off my wet clothes. When I came out into her bedroom swimming in
her oversized, thick yellow robe, she threw dry, warm clothes to me.
After a short stint with the blow-dryer, I changed into the jeans
and sweater she had chosen for me. I peered into the mirror as I used
a wet cotton ball to try to dab at smeared mascara underneath my
eyes. The beautiful pale lilac of the sweater perfectly complemented
my skin tone. My cheeks were still flushed from the spatter of the
rain against my skin. My finger-combed hair lay in wild wisps
around my face.
I stepped back from the mirror to survey myself better. My eyes
seemed exceptionally brilliant, given a new depth from the dark
mascara that had bled onto my lash line, glinting with their brightest
jewel tone in contrast to the purple fabric. I smiled at my reflection
and hoped I could re-create the look the next time I saw Gregory and
planned to ask Constance to borrow the sweater for a few days.
Constance and I improvised a version of chili from various
leftovers in her refrigerator, fairly proud of our outcome. We could
have eaten at the counter in the kitchen, but Constance was insistent
we flare up the centerpiece and make it a more extravagant dinner in
the dining room. She seemed more down than I had ever seen her,
and after some prompting, she finally told me what was bothering
her. It was a vulnerable side I rarely got a glimpse into.
Her blind date on New Year’s Eve was spectacular, but it had
been over a week, and she hadn’t heard from Samuel’s nephew since
he went back to Chicago. She didn’t want to damage her relationship
with Samuel, but she desperately wanted to know what had gone
wrong and didn’t know how to approach the topic with him.
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“It’s simply humiliating,” she said with a catch in her words.
“Not only do I have to be dumped after a one-night stand, but now
my colleague even has to know I’m a failure at relationships.”
I consoled her. It was definitely not a night to talk about the
deeper-developing bond between Gregory and me. I knew she
would be genuinely happy for us, but it smacked of bragging on my
part. This night was about her and helping to restore her self-worth
and value despite being with so many wrong men recently. I felt
truly sorry for her, and as I fell asleep later, warm in my bed after yet
another long telephone conversation with Gregory that filled me
with such joy, I prayed she would find a man who brought her an
equal level of happiness.
And, not only did I have Gregory, but there was also Joe,
relentless in his pursuit to reconcile with me. I didn’t have one man
who wanted to be with me; I had two. It seemed counterintuitive to
what was happening in her life. She was such an inspiring energy
and had so much to bring to a relationship.
It puzzled me men weren’t lined down Paradise Drive wanting
to be with her. Just as it puzzled me why Joe wouldn’t accept the end
of our relationship. It certainly wasn’t a love story worthy of a fight.
Fortunately he hadn’t made any grand gesture other than the
repeated phone calls and messages begging for my return. It wasn’t
his nature to make a grand statement in any way. But there was no
force on earth to send me back to Joe.
Even so, I had taken the easy route and didn’t tell Joe about
Gregory. I rationalized our breakup held more weight by making the
focus about what the relationship was lacking, rather than about
meeting someone new. But it was my own fears that kept me silent
about Gregory. Whether I knew it or not, I was protecting Gregory. s
I knew Joe had a vile temper and couldn’t bear to know what he
might be capable of in a fit of jealousy.
In the years since, I often wonder if it weren’t for Gregory
whether I would have taken the path of least resistance and stayed
with Joe. Would I have been as lonely as Constance? Driven back to Joe out
of desperation?
The New Year had taken off like a rocket. Work escalated in its
intensity, requiring more early mornings and late nights. Gregory
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and I had to get creative finding time to be together in every spare
minute of my work hours and his training schedule, so we would
meet at odd hours in the night and split our time together on some
weekends. I often joined Gregory for strength training at the health
club, or we ran along the shore, but I knew I was preventing him
from hitting his full stride, so I often encouraged him to get his
cardio training in without me.
We couldn’t be indulgent in our relationship every day, so there
were occasional nights we spent apart to take care of things falling
behind with us spending so much time together. I finally used one of
those nights to take care of some much-needed housecleaning in the
cottage. As I passed the phone with the deafening growl of the
vacuum, I saw its pleasing flash alert me a message was waiting.
While I had been intent on cleaning the rug, I had missed a call. I
was irritated when I saw Joe’s number on the caller ID instead of
Gregory’s. But this time there were three messages from him in the
space of just a few minutes. “Urgent,” he had said, and while it
occurred to me it might be a ploy to get me to call him, I returned his
call anyway. It was the first time we had spoken in weeks. Time
apart had certainly not mellowed him. He answered the phone in his
classic brusque tone and immediately announced he was moving
back to Colorado. His words were sporadic and disconnected. His
mother was ill.
“Cancer. I need to go back to help while she goes through
chemotherapy and radiation. Long-term prognosis is not great. A
year at the most. Eight to ten months, more likely.”
Without missing a stride, he said, “I think you should move
back with me. Once we’re back home and there’s less distraction
with your job, you’ll see we belong together. I should have never
asked you to move out here. It just made everything more
complicated. It’s time to get things back on track.”
It was the last call and last request I expected to hear from Joe,
but I held firm and found myself telling my objections to the empty
receiver when Joe hung up in a characteristic fit of rage.
Joe moved back to Colorado in late January, but remained
relentless about me following him back home. Since the calls were
now long-distance, at least I was spared the frequency of the phone
ringing and ranting voice-mail messages. I was shocked by his
tenacity, yet always wondering if it was his love for me or his
inability to accept the failure of our relationship. He sent me a
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bouquet for every day of the week leading up to Valentine’s Day.
His messages on the cards were trite and predictable:
I miss you. Come back to me. There’s no sunshine without you.
The saturating fragrance from the multiple floral arrangements
was overwhelming my senses when I heard a faint knock on my
office door. Gregory poked his head in, but his smile suddenly faded
when he saw the array of bouquets amassed in my office. He had a
dainty rosebud in a vase and dropped it with a thud onto my desk.
“What’s the story here?” he asked as he jealously snatched a
card from an arrangement and scanned it quickly. He flicked the
card onto the floor. “I thought this relationship was a done deal.”
“Oh, Gregory, it definitely is over.”
“Apparently not,” he replied with a gesture toward the flowers.
“I know. He hasn’t ever given up hope of us getting back
together,” I said remorsefully.
“And why is that?” he asked. “It’s been months now.”
I had never seen even a glimmer of anger from Gregory. Ever. It
was something I had never hoped to initiate from him.
“He…just…doesn’t listen to logic.”
“Logic? He doesn’t listen to logic? What is there to be logical
about with a guy like him?”
“I didn’t mean logic,” I tried to clarify. “I meant he just doesn’t
want to accept the fact the relationship has ended.”
“Well he better learn to accept it,” Gregory said with finality.
“He will,” I said with assurance.
“When? He must know things have gotten serious with us?”
The look in my eyes betrayed my secret. Gregory could see I
had been withholding facts from him. He just shook his head; his
look of disgust curdled my heart.
“Unbelievable. You haven’t even told him about us, have you?”
he asked, and he leaned into a defiant stance against my bookcase.
“Has he even moved back to Colorado, or is that another surprise for
me?”
“Of course he moved back. I wouldn’t lie to you.”
Just then the phone rang. The display showed Jill’s extension. I
instinctively reached to grab the receiver, my hand shaking, but the
agitated look from Gregory implied answering it was not the wise
decision. I hadn’t intended to cause this encounter, but I hadn’t
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thought through the risk of Gregory finding out I had been a coward
in ending my relationship with Joe. I had only viewed it from my
own selfish perspective of not wanting to deal with Joe’s wrath, not
ever considering how Gregory might react once my omission of
truth was revealed.
If Joe had just gone away, if he had just accepted the conclusion
to our relationship, if he had just reacted in his normal ambivalent
way, I wouldn’t be standing in my office with Gregory looking at me
with a distaste that cut me to the core. I hated Joe more in that
moment than I ever had.
“Just take care of it with him,” Gregory said as he left me
standing in my office, horrified I had created a rift in our
relationship. My heart was thundering in my chest, my hands
trembling, angry at myself for causing his outburst. Gregory’s
temper had flared up just like Joe’s. But his anger was justified, and I
was completely responsible for it. I dropped into my chair, certain I
had ruined everything, crushed to the core. I couldn’t concentrate for
the rest of the day. Luckily Richard left early, so I didn’t have to put
on a pretense I was working hard.
Gregory and I had reservations at an elegant French restaurant
overlooking the bay later that night, and I worried he would call off
our plans, so when he called at the end of the day to confirm, relief
poured into my heart.
“About today—” I started to say, but he interrupted me.
“Let’s not let it ruin our night. Let’s just put it in the past. I
won’t ever ask you about it again. Just promise me you’ll tell Joe
you’ve moved on and it’s time for him to move on himself.”
I promised him I would and immediately made the call to Joe.
Gregory and I rebounded well from our first argument. By the
weekend, it was a distant memory, and our only focus was making
what time we could together with Gregory’s rigorous training
schedule. The triathlon was just over two months away, and he was
starting to worry because he wasn’t meeting his time goals routinely,
so he had stepped up his training schedule rather radically.
He had made plans to take me to Peacock Gap Golf Course and
introduce me to the game. I had expected to actually play a round,
but he said starting on the driving range was the best approach. And
he was right because I was terrible. I hacked at the balls, swinging
myself off-balance, and the few I did connect with flew off in skewed
angles. One even popped upward and back over our heads. But we
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laughed until our sides hurt. Finally, Gregory took a stance behind
me, holding my club with me, and showed me how to swing
correctly. His patience and superb guidance had me hitting the balls
smoothly and nearly a hundred yards on my own quickly.
On the ride back to his apartment to make lunch before he set
out for his afternoon training session, I asked if he had ever thought
about teaching.
“I hope to be able to teach with my writing,” he responded. “I
mean, isn’t that the ultimate purpose of good writing? You weave
meaning throughout an interesting story, and voila, the reader
doesn’t even realize it. A great story not only keeps your attention,
but it teaches you something, leaves you with something new. Good
writing opens the door and gives you the chance to experience
things you might not otherwise.” It was an apt description.
A few weeks later, Gregory and I were grabbing a quick bite in
the sunshine on our building’s rooftop patio when he casually
mentioned his parents and brother were coming to visit him the
following weekend, but he made no indication to include me in any
of their activities.
I felt totally rejected. He didn’t even seem apologetic, rather
matter-of-fact about where he planned to take them, things he
wanted them to experience. I wondered if it might be a delayed
punishment for me not having told Joe about our relationship, but as
I watched him, he seemed totally oblivious I was brewing inside.
When the weekend arrived, and ample free time on my hands, I
made love overdue plans to go to brunch with Constance.
When I asked for her advice on the situation, Constance was
sympathetic, but surprisingly, she sided with Gregory. “It’s too soon
to meet his family. You’ve been dating, what, three months? Let
things develop more before you take that step. Think about how
long you waited to introduce Joe to your family.”
“That was different. We all lived in the same city. There were
plenty of chances for them to meet him. It’s not like his parents and
brothers are around every weekend. Hell, I didn’t even know at
three months if I even liked Joe, which is what makes me worry.
Maybe it means Gregory doesn’t know what he feels about me?”
“Don’t be an idiot. I have seen the two of you together. You’re
like, sheesh, kindred souls or something. It’s creepy.” She smiled. It
took me only seconds to realize she was joking.
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“It’s heartwarming and lovely is what it really is,” she said as
she placed a comforting hand on mind. “How could you even doubt
for a minute what he feels for you?”
“The proverbial ‘it’s not what he says, but what he does.’ That’s
why doubt creeps in.”
“He does, he does, for Christ sake. He does a lot for you and
because of you. How many men would have done what he did for
you at Christmas? Then for him to fly home early to be with you on
New Year’s Eve? And have you seen how that man looks at you? He
adores you. You’re making too much of this. He cares about you.
Period.”
Then she gestured her head toward the opposite side of the bar.
“Now let’s concentrate on this incredibly wealthy guy looking over
here at us.” But before I could respond, she was out of our booth and
slithered up toward the bar to order us another round of drinks. Her
strategic placement worked, as the man moved in her direction.
After a brief conversation, Constance brought him back to our
table. But when he sat down next to me instead of on her side of the
table, I watched Constance’s face fall. The man threw his arm over
the backside of the booth, making Constance cringe. She introduced
him as Bob, a winery owner from Napa. The three of us talked, and I
kept trying to steer the conversation to focus Bob on Constance, but
question after question was directed toward me. I was trying to craft
a way to politely disengage myself from the uncomfortable situation,
until he let his arm slip down around my shoulders, and I shot past
him out of the booth, toward the bathroom.
When I returned, ready with an excuse on my tongue to make
my escape from the restaurant, I was relieved to see Bob had moved
to Constance’s side of the table. I decided if he would behave, I
would stay and finish my meal, which he did. Bob was generous
enough to pick up the tab and suggested that we join him on his
sailboat in the bay. Bob’s car was parked right at the entrance to the
restaurant, and he showed no subtlety proudly informing us that the
midnight blue Jaguar convertible was his.
“I have a dress this same color,” I said admiringly.
The car was more seductive to me than Bob himself. He was
well traveled and wealthy, with houses in both Napa and Sausalito,
but even his tailored slacks and cashmere sweater couldn’t conceal
his squat, slightly pudgy body or add appeal to his canine facial
features, moping eyes underneath drooping lids and fleshy cheeks.
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I was uncomfortable heading out on the water with a strange
man, but Constance was attracted to his cosmopolitan ways, and I
wanted her to get the chance to know him better. Just as we were
boarding Bob’s sailboat, my cell phone chimed. My heart soared
when I saw Gregory’s number on the display. He seemed worried
when I told him we were headed out onto the water with a guy we’d
just met in the restaurant, and I sensed a touch of jealousy.
Gregory asked me to come meet him and his family for lunch,
but since Constance had driven us to the restaurant and then to the
dock, it would have taken over an hour for her to take me back to the
cottage. Gregory seemed genuinely disappointed I wasn’t going to
join them. Their flight was at 6:30 p.m., so there wasn’t even a chance
to join them for dinner. I knew I was crazy to decline his offer after I
had stressed so much feeling excluded, but just the fact that he had
extended the invitation pleased me immensely.
Bob’s sailboat was extraordinary. It was a grand forty-four-foot
sailboat, with a small crew, that he had had christened Winery
Windfall. The interior cabin was a rich cherry wood, with cushiony,
built-in benches for us to recline on under the massive sails.
We sailed in the bay under the brilliant sun, the skyline
whizzing past as the wind whipped against our skin and coiled my
hair into knots. I had made it a point to reference “my boyfriend”
multiple times throughout the day, which drove Bob’s attentions
more toward Constance. Attention she relished.
The waters were rough. Too many boats to count crisscrossed
paths from every direction, kicking up irregular patterns of wake
that we lurched through. As the sky deepened, we sailed toward the
horizon in the west. Thin bands of wispy clouds, like tissue paper,
swirled and dissipated in the winds overhead. Bob circulated with a
fresh bottle of champagne for us as the setting sun cast vivid strands
of pink and orange across the sky. The skies were a velvety black by
the time we returned to the dock.
I was exhilarated by the day on such an extravagant craft. It
made my dad’s ski boat seem like a miniature floating in the tub. It
could only have been a better day if Gregory had been there with
me. Balancing my exhilaration was disappointment that Gregory’s
family had left, back to Southern California, and I never got to meet
them. But knowing that Gregory wanted to include me made all the
difference in the world, even if it hadn’t felt that way at first. It
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brought a new dimension to our relationship once we learned that
we didn’t get pleasure from anything that excluded the other.
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hapter
I normally woke wound up with excitement on every one of my
birthdays. I still had a childish fondness for birthday celebrations
and the traditions of gifts and cake. But that birthday, I awoke with
unease. I was already more than a week late, but I had the juvenile
notion because it was my birthday, my gift would be my period
starting.
Gregory was still asleep beside me, his face serene. His
muscular arm stretched along the length of the pillow behind my
head, his palm open to the ceiling. His hands were large, thick, and
sturdy, his squared nails groomed, almost as if manicured. I traced
my fingers along his and instinctively, without waking, he closed his
hand around mine. I felt warmth and security in his grasp. I closed
my eyes and relished the moment, but I wanted to get up before him
to assure my fears were only that.
The chill in the room pierced through me as my feet hit the cold
floor. Mornings like this, I had to choose my least flattering, thick
robe. Even a few seconds to get upstairs to turn on the heater would
prolong knowing if I had my period. I had to know. My heart raced.
Not a trace of blood. My mind was in mayhem.
This wasn’t how it was supposed to happen. Our lives were
ideal. I didn’t want to cause disruption to our harmony. I’d taken the
pill every day since we’d been together, not missing a day. I hadn’t
even been late taking it, at least not since around the holidays. But
that had been months ago. I had slept in a few times on my days off
for Christmas and New Year’s, when we had first made love, taking
the pill a few hours later than normal, but I never missed a pill
entirely. Gregory and I had spent so much time together, the days
and weeks were a blur. I calculated the days. If I had conceived from
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being late with my pills so long ago, I would be nearly three months
pregnant, and that didn’t seem possible.
I counted the days backward to when I would have been
ovulating to have missed this period. The week he was with his
family. It didn’t make sense. We went over a week without being
together. I agonized over how I was going to approach this with
Gregory. This was a dilemma I couldn’t face again. A potential
pregnancy could drive a wedge between couples who had been
together years, let alone months. I was a living example of the worst
possible outcome of conflict over an unwanted pregnancy.
Gregory and I were just hitting a stride, a depth incomparable
to any relationship I had even been in. Whether we wanted marriage
or desired kids in general, let alone with each other, just hadn’t been
a topic of conversation yet. Joe had originally reacted with pride and
happiness, I watched crumble before my very eyes.
I knew I needed to confide my fear of being pregnant to
Gregory, but I didn’t know how. I watched him for a moment from
the bathroom door. He was sleeping so soundly. His tousled raven
hair and olive skin looked even darker against the white pillowcase.
My heart surged with emotion. I was falling in love. I saw a future
with Gregory, and a pregnancy would alter any chance of that.
I shed my robe and slipped back into bed next to him. He rolled
over and wrapped himself around me. I wanted more mornings like
this, no responsibilities, no worries, no major life decisions to
contend with. Just simplicity and freedom to be together. I
desperately wanted to not be pregnant.
I couldn’t fall back asleep, the alarm was going to blare into the
room soon, signaling Gregory to rouse for his training. The
competition was too important to him, and telling him then would
only make him skip his training session. I figured it would be good
to use the day to decide the best way to approach him.
My eyes were still wide open when the alarm kicked on twenty
minutes later. Gregory whispered “Happy birthday, sweetheart,”
sweetly in my ear as he tightened his grasp around me. Since we had
plans for dinner after work, it was easy to convince Gregory to stick
with his morning training routine when he suggested he could skip
it to stay in bed with me longer.
At work, Jill had planned to take me to lunch for my birthday,
and I worried she would notice my off mood. I didn’t know she had
arranged some colleagues to go in together and surprise me with a
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birthday cake when we returned. When she steered me toward the
conference room, I was completely caught off guard.
When I spotted Gregory at the other end of the long table, with
a wide smile on his face, she winked at me and ushered me into the
room. I wasn’t sure how she was going to explain his presence to the
others, but it didn’t matter at the moment. I tried to enjoy the
attention, but my mind was elsewhere. After an anxiety-filled day, I
didn’t look forward to my birthday celebration with Gregory.
He had planned an intimate dinner at a trendy rooftop bar in
San Francisco. The night was crisp and clear; the city lights were
dazzling. While the view was breathtaking, my anxiety was gnawing
at me inside. I hadn’t even had a second to think about what gift
Gregory might choose. So when he handed me an envelope with a
red bow on it, I was puzzled.
His birthday gift had been quite easy. He had been looking at
some very expensive training gear I winced at when buying it for
him, but it really did help him improve his biking speed. I opened
the card, and a handwritten voucher dropped out, with a
commitment to take me away for a long weekend getaway in Napa.
“It’s not only your birthday gift,” Gregory said. “It’s a thankyou
for your patience with me being such a training fanatic. We’ll
really do it up right. A classy bed-and-breakfast, a limo to all the best
wineries and champagne cellars, it will be a trip you won’t forget.”
I did a mental calculation, realizing I might just be lucky
enough to be done with morning sickness if this whole nightmare
came true. I could tell Gregory sensed something was bothering me.
He kept talking up the long weekend as if that was the cause of my
distress. But I was distracted throughout our entire meal, until he
finally forced me to reveal my worries after the waiter brought us a
decadent dessert to share. Gregory was strangely calm about the
predicament. Not angry, not upset, not alarmed.
Oddly, he seemed relieved I hadn’t been upset about his
delayed birthday gift of the long weekend in Napa. His advice was
not to panic and wait another week before we got a test to confirm or
deny a pregnancy. Gregory knew I had been through another
stressful period at work and attributed it as a possible cause. We
didn’t talk about the specifics of what we might do if the test came
back positive, but yet I felt completely reassured whatever the
outcome, he was going to be there with me to figure it out.
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Later that night, after tender lovemaking, we tried to fall asleep,
but we each kept interjecting last thoughts, not wanting the night to
end. A high moon was throwing light across our naked bodies from
the windows overhead.
“We need to sleep,” I moaned. “I’ll be worthless tomorrow if we
don’t.”
“I know,” he said as he nuzzled on my neck. “But I can’t keep
my hands off of you.”
He traced his fingers down the length of my back.
“Why is it,” he began, following the path of his fingers with
gentle kisses, “every beauty mark you have is in a series of threes?
Like this one.” He planted a kiss on my shoulder. “And this one.”
Another kiss on the middle of my back. “And this one.” Another kiss
on the slope of my hip. He nudged me onto my back and continued
searching for triangular groupings of beauty marks. “And here’s
another one.” He kissed the curve of my inner thigh. “And another
one.” He kissed a mark near my navel that sent electric pulses
through my core.
“What do you think is the significance of this?” he mumbled as
he kissed another mark.
I was lost in arousal. “The significance of what?”
“That all your beauty marks are clustered in little groups of
three,” he replied.
“I don’t know, I guess I never realized it before,” I said.
“It’s got to have some significance. The pattern is just too
consistent. Little triangles of beauty marks everywhere I look. Even
these little ones right here.” He kissed the crescent of my left breast.
“I’m going to have to research this,” he said, distracted as he moved
on top of me and I felt his warmth again between my legs.
I had promised Gregory we would wait another week before
taking a pregnancy test, but driving home from the ferry dock the
next night, instead of turning toward Paradise Drive, I turned the
opposite direction toward the drugstore. Not knowing was eating
away at me. Confirmation, either way, was going to better than
uncertainty. As I drove back toward the cottage, I saw monstrous
storm clouds forming over the hills. I prayed it wasn’t an omen.
I was back in the cottage reading the package instructions
when Gregory knocked on the door. Startled, I dropped the package
back into the bag and thrust it into a cupboard before I answered the
door.
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“You seem stressed,” Gregory commented after just a few
minutes inside with me.
“I am,” I confirmed as I took the brown paper bag out of the
cupboard and produced the brightly colored box containing the test.
He came toward me and took me into his arms.
“I thought we were going to wait a week and see if you got
your period.”
“I’m sorry. I couldn’t wait any longer. I just need to know what
we’re dealing with.” My voice was muffled, buried in his sweater,
comforting myself by inhaling his familiar, alluring scent.
“I know. I understand. Here, let me help you relax and get your
mind off it,” he offered.
“How can you be so calm?” My stomach was flopping like a
trapped animal.
“I don’t know. I wouldn’t say its calmness. It’s just that I am
ready no matter what the outcome.”
“How can you say that?” My words were gripped with panic,
and I wasn’t even grasping how fortunate I was he wasn’t freaked
out. I was overcome with my own paranoia.
“You’re ready for parenthood? How this will change our
relationship? Can you honestly say you are ready to face a decision
that is so personal, ethical, and life-altering?”
“I’m just looking at it a little differently,” he answered. “It’s a
completely unexpected change of course, but that doesn’t mean I
can’t deal with it.” He gently cupped my face in his hands and
connected eye to eye with me. “We’ll figure it out no matter what the
result. We’re doing this together, not apart. I promise you.” He
lengthened his massive arms around my small frame, smothering
me with his serenity. “Here, let’s go get you in a different frame of
mind.”
I protested.
“Not that kind of frame of mind,” he said. “Just trust me.”
Downstairs, as Gregory peeled my clothes off, arousal
blossomed within me. My desire for him was uncontainable. I owed
this new satisfaction with my life entirely to him. I couldn’t imagine
facing the same situation with Joe. As Gregory’s hands massaged the
expanse between my shoulder blades, gratitude for his calming
presence washed through me. After he relaxed my muscles with
long, firm strokes, he circled his fingers around an area on my right
shoulder.
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“So I did my research. These patterns have a meaning in the
constellations. Triplicates like these represent fortune, fate, and
destiny,” he said as he laid his lips on the series ever so softly.
“That doesn’t sound good.”
“Sure it is. Fate doesn’t always imply a negative outcome.
Maybe it was our fate to meet,” he said as he moved lower to work
on the small of my back.
“That sounds more like my fortune. But aren’t fate and destiny
one in the same?”
“Fate is more typically thought to be something inevitable. No
matter what you do, how you act, a course that’s predetermined,” he
explained. “Some people call that destiny, but in literature, destiny
has more of an element of choice. Your choices can alter your
destiny. Of course, it all depends on which theory and philosophy
you subscribe to. Either way, it’s the best explanation I can find for
these lovely little groupings all over your body.” He kissed the series
on my back. “Fortune.” Then he kissed the ones on my hip. “Fate.”
Then he rolled me over and kissed the grouping on my breast.
“Destiny,” he said last, and then he kissed me deeply as I drifted off
in the bliss of his touch.
I awoke sometime later to noises in the kitchen. My stomach
was growling, and the bedroom was dark except for the light I could
see from the kitchen above. I called up to Gregory, and his face
appeared over the railing to let me know he was making us a light
snack since we had fallen asleep without having dinner. He brought
down a tray of sliced pears, cubes of cheese, and a half loaf of French
bread that we devoured quickly. Gregory hadn’t planned to spend
the night, since he was now training every morning on his bike. He
was progressing well with his running and swimming times, but still
had to get his biking times up. He wasn’t letting up wanting to stay
over, but I was insistent he stick to his training schedule. I had
caused enough distraction in his regimen and felt it important to
help keep him focused.
“If this is something we’re going to go through together, we
should start it together,” Gregory protested.
“That’s so sweet of you to say.” I was touched by his emotions
and compassion. “But I’m honestly not sure how I’ll react. I’ll need
to digest it, whatever the result,” I told him, hoping not to hurt his
feelings. I also needed to rid my mind of the haunting knowledge of
having been through this before.
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He held me tightly at the doorway, longer than usual. Large
raindrops were pelting down from the midnight skies, and the air
was frigid. “I’ll be out riding about five thirty in the morning, but
you’ll call me immediately?” he asked with the question mark
looming out with frosted breath.
“I will,” I assured him.
He started to back away, but before he disappeared into the
darkness, “This seems wrong. I should be here for you,” he said with
hesitation, as if there was more he wanted to say.
I walked out into the rain to hug him one last time.
“You are with me, whether you’re physically here or not. I just
need to do this part of it alone because I can’t predict how knowing
whether I am or not pregnant will affect me,” I said as we embraced.
I nearly blurted out that I loved him, but thought otherwise. The
moment needed to be different.
I awakened to a miserable morning. My sleep had been erratic,
and I only got three or four hours of solid rest. The rain had been
continual through the night, splashing on the windows in a soft, but
steady, not a usual downpour. Anxious to learn the test result, but
not wanting to take it too early, I had to keep waiting, knowing the
exact time in the morning was crucial for accuracy of the test result.
Impatiently, I had already taken one of the tests as soon as Gregory
had left, and it was negative, but it wasn’t enough to ease my mind.
I stared at the numbers on the clock, willing them to pass faster.
When the display finally showed 5:30 a.m., the earliest possible time
for first morning urine, I dragged my weary body out of bed and
shuffled to the bathroom. Splashing the first spits of icy water onto
my face was a jolt. My feet were so cold they felt numb on the icy
tile. I liked to sleep with the temperature turned down low, under
layers of warm blankets, but I always regretted the morning chill
and set the alarm for a good half hour more than most people, as the
snooze was far more appealing than the harsh cold outside of my
burrow.
I snatched a towel from the rack and dropped it by my feet, not
exactly warmth, but easier than trying to figure out where I last left
my slippers. The light in the bathroom seemed exceptionally bright,
stark in contrast to the gray skies that loomed outside. I stared at
myself longer than usual in the mirror. I had deep apprehension in
my belly. My hair was matted and gnarled, deep ruts visible
underneath my eyes. I felt rather conflicted. I didn’t want to be
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pregnant, yet there was something calming to think I might be
pregnant with Gregory’s baby. If the result was positive, I wasn’t
certain I would be terribly distraught. It was entirely possible I
didn’t want him there with me, seeing relief in his eyes if I wasn’t
pregnant was going to be equally hard to take.
“What’s meant to be is what’s meant to be,” I whispered to
myself in the mirror and then waited the interminable few minutes
to view the device. I knew time would move quicker if I left and
went to start the coffeepot, but I was fixated. I kept pivoting the
holder as if my eyes were deceiving me. Was that a bit of color? No,
just a shadow from the angle. I was fearful, and the pounding of my
heart didn’t alleviate my apprehension.
Finally, I had waited long enough. I peeked at the alarm clock
beside the bed. Almost twenty minutes had clicked away since I’d
urinated on the strip. I squinted harder at its tiny window and saw
no trace of color. It was negative. The second test to confirm it was
negative. I had given it plenty of time, and it was clearly accurate.
Relief escaped my lips, and only a tinge of disappointment
settled into my gut. I flipped the holder into the trashcan and
resumed my morning ritual. I considered calling Gregory right then,
but wanted to rehearse my announcement so I seemed appropriately
pleased with the result.
The water from the shower warmed up quicker than usual and
gave me more time to soak and reflect on the outcome of the test. I
knew it was better, considering the early stage of our relationship,
but it was too tempting to imagine being married to Gregory, to
having a child together. Despite our dissimilar appearances, I
pictured adorable children, a rugged little boy with softly flowing
sable black curls or a little girl with light, flowing waves of hair and
my same brilliant blue-green eyes. I was saddened the picture in my
mind might not play out, at least, not now. If I was pregnant, it
didn’t necessarily mean we would have gotten married. Plenty of
people had children together without making that commitment.
Nevertheless, there was no sense trying to speculate. We were no
longer dealing with the possibility of a pregnancy.
After my shower, I grabbed the phone to call Gregory. A quick
glance at the clock told me he would definitely still be out riding,
and I wondered if I should wait longer to catch him coming back for
his shower before work. I decided I might be unprepared to talk to
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him in person, to be able to disguise my disappointment, so I made
the call.
I heard Gregory’s upbeat message and smiled with warmth
about my fortune having him in my life and bringing such a positive
influence into my world.
“Good morning, it’s me. I’m glad you didn’t let the possibility
of the news this morning or the drizzling rain keep you from getting
out for a ride. You’ll be so happy to hear everything is okay. No
crisis, no unintended situation. I hope you are as relieved as I am. I’ll
talk to you at work later today. Bye.” I worked hard on sounding
sincerely relieved.
I finished getting ready for work and uncharacteristically
lost track of time. As I glanced at the clock on my way out the door, I
was a bit surprised Gregory had not called back yet. Certainly, he
would have heard the message and called on the off chance he might
catch me before I left for the office. “Probably a message will be
waiting for me at work,” I told myself. I hoped he might ask me to
meet him in the lobby for coffee, because I really needed the comfort
of being near him.
Running as late as I was, I didn’t have time to catch the ferry, so
driving was the best option. Just as I was approaching the tunnel,
traffic became heavy and slow. “Not today,” I moaned to myself.
Cars were creeping along, not ever hitting a stride, only inches at a
time. The grating of the windshield wipers started to annoy me, but
the rain had become so much more intense, as if I had driven under a
waterfall, so I had to keep them running. When I entered the tunnel
and the cascading drops abruptly ended, I switched them off
immediately. The stagnant exhaust from the vehicles inching
through assaulted my nostrils. After twenty minutes, exiting the
tunnel’s south side, I saw the whirling reflections of police lights off
the rocky hillside. A bad accident on a stormy morning. How
miserable. It took me double my normal commute time, but I finally
reached the office. My heart sank when I didn’t see a message from
Gregory waiting for me.
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hapter
A few hours went by, and I glared at the phone frequently, not
certain how to react to this uncharacteristic behavior from Gregory.
Was it possible he didn’t get the message and was wondering the
exact thing about me? I picked up the phone and was about to dial
his number when Cyndi poked her head into my office.
“Can you believe the horrible news?” she hurled at me.
“What horrible news?” I responded, not even caring why she
had chosen me as an unusual confidant.
“The tragedy this morning. That gorgeous guy from Trails.
Killed on his bike.”
“What?” I asked as dread surged into my heart.
“Yeah. I hear they’re considering closing the office today. The
publisher is deciding right now.” She seemed oblivious to my real
question.
“Cyndi, what did you hear? Who was killed?”
“The new guy, from Southern California. The tall, handsome
guy. I think his name is Vince or something.”
“Not Gregory Vincent?”
“Yes. That’s the guy. How awful, such a shame. So young and
so gorgeous,” she said as she lumbered off down the hallway.
I was already sitting, but felt my legs giving way. Cyndi was
obviously completely misinformed. I called Gregory’s extension,
fully expecting him to pick up. But after a few rings, his voice-mail
message came on. Despite he didn’t answer in person, just the sound
of his voice calmed me. It had to be someone else, I thought. It
flashed through my mind whether Cyndi was playing some horrible
prank on me. I dialed Jill’s extension. She answered the phone before
the second ring.
“Jill, I heard something terrible.”
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“Oh God, Alicia. I’m coming right down.”
I was puzzled how she would even knew what I was referring
to and I rationalized she was coming to talk to me and clear up the
confusion. Jill was at my office far too quickly. She closed the door
behind her, walked over to me, and draped her entire body onto my
shoulders.
“Oh God, Alicia,” she said again. “I can’t believe this happened.
I was just getting ready to come down here to tell you myself.”
Fear bubbled into my veins. The weight of her body was
crushing me.
“Jill, you’re scaring me.” I pushed her away so I could see her
face. Her expression terrified me. “What the hell is going on?” I
asked in near hysteria.
“Who told you?” Tears poured from her eyes and she crouched
down next to my chair.
“Cyndi came by to tell me about somebody who was killed this
morning, and she seems to believe it was Gregory. But that’s
impossible.”
“Alicia,” she whispered so softly I could barely hear her, “it was
Gregory.” She closed her eyes briefly and continued as she shielded
her eyes from mine. “Apparently he was biking this morning, and he
went into a skid, right into the path of an oncoming car. They think
the roads were slick from all this rain. The police say he died
instantly.” She spoke very slowly and enunciated every word as if
for my complete comprehension.
“You’re wrong. How could you possibly know all of this?” My
anger seeped into my denial.
“His boss came up. He got the call from the state patrol when
he arrived a few hours ago. They identified him and traced him to
his parents, who gave them the information to call the office.”
“No. No. This cannot be happening,” I cried out. My mind was
spinning. Only complete disbelief and certainty the facts were wrong
was all I was capable of thinking. “Jill. It’s a mistake. It has to be. A
horrible, unfortunate mistake. Gregory just decided to play hooky.
We had…we were waiting…” I stammered.
“There was some potentially bad news we were dealing with.
He must have just been freaked out and needed some time alone.
He’s fine. Whoever was killed in the accident…” My stammering
made little sense. “It’s just mistaken identity; that’s all this is.”
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I needed to convince us both something very extraordinary had
occurred. That it wasn’t Gregory who had died.
“I’m sorry, Alicia. I truly am. I wish it were a mistake. But it’s
true,” she said as she braced her arms on my shoulders. “It’s tragic.
But it’s very true.”
Despite how much trust I had developed with Jill, I was
angry she didn’t even try to consider it was all mistaken identity.
“Alicia, let me take you home. You need to process this. And
you need to not be here right now.”
“I drove my car today. I don’t need a ride home.” I was stolid
and calculated, stunned into a new reality I didn’t want any part of.
“But you’re right. I need to leave,” I said as I started toward the door
without my things.
Jill intercepted me. “Alicia. Seriously. You’re not in a position to
drive. Let me take you home.”
“Don’t be stupid, Jill. You live in the East Bay. Marin is entirely
out of your way.” She looked at me with a look that said I had been
too abrupt. “I mean, thank you. But I think I need to be alone with
this,” I said, less focused on the logistics.
“I don’t think it’s a good idea.”
Jill was becoming aggravatingly persistent, and I just needed
her to back off.
“Jill, it’s fine. I can call Constance. She’s working a few blocks
over at the theater, and she’ll be heading back to her studio anyway.
Considering the circumstances, she won’t even hesitate to come get
me.” I had no intention of calling Constance, but every intention of
proving Jill wrong.
Jill showed no sign of leaving, so I called my home phone
number, pretending it was Constance, and asked my own voice on
the recording to come pick me up from the office. Jill seemed
relieved after I made the call. I worried she would follow me down
to the lobby and wait for her to arrive, but she seemed convinced I
wasn’t going to drive myself home.
“I’ll talk to Richard,” she said as she gathered up my things for
me. “I’ll tell him you’ll be out until after the funeral. I don’t know
when it will be for sure, but it sounds like early next week. We’ll be
getting the details from his parents later today.”
Resentment pierced into me. How was it possible she knew so
much? She’d talked to his parents? I didn’t even know his parents. I felt
entirely transparent in what was happening. Numbly, I snatched my
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purse and jacket from her hands. Then I grabbed my umbrella, still
dripping from the morning hopscotch I had done through the
smattering of puddles in the Second Avenue intersection. I muttered
an unintelligible comment to Jill as I pushed past her out of my
office.
I mindlessly exited the building, walking toward the ferry dock,
forgetting I’d parked in a lot in the other direction. I expected to
simply release all my energy and collapse once encased in the
pseudo-privacy of my car, but instead I roared the engine to life and
plowed my car onto the road toward my haven at the cottage.
Racing to get back to safety on my side of the bay, as I
approached the north end of the Golden Gate Bridge, I drifted onto
the exit where I had seen the accident earlier in the morning. I
vividly recalled my first date with Gregory when we rendezvoused
near that very spot and shared a bottle of wine. The memory swelled
into my chest cavity, constricting the normal flow of my breathing.
I regretted my choice of route instantly. The accident site was
still buzzing with activity. The rain was now torrential, and there
were policeman everywhere in their poly-bagged hats, with yellow
crime scene tape, siphoning the oncoming cars into a single lane. I
followed the arc of the cars ahead of me as we were motioned
toward the shoulder of the road. I felt the vibration of gravel under
my right tires as the tiny rocks crackled under the wheels.
Through the pulsations of the windshield wipers, I saw a
tangled segment of Gregory’s bike, and my heart leapt into
pandemonium. I braked hard and fortunately was not going fast
enough to send my car into a skid, but it still lurched forward.
The movement caused an officer to snap his attention my
direction. Walking toward my car, he was violently motioning me
on. I couldn’t tear my eyes from the mangled piece of aluminum.
When I didn’t move, the officer came right up to my window.
“Lady,” he was shouting through his mask of rain, “you need to
move on.” His voice was muted by the clatter of the rain. He rapped
dully on my windowpane with his gloved hand as spirals of vapor
escaped his nose and mouth. He repeated his directive for me to
move forward.
I wanted to ask his permission to park there, to help survey the
scene, anything to help me feel more a part of the tragedy than a
helpless, nameless bystander who had more invested in the scene
than he could possibly know.
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A car honked behind me, riling the officer even more, and his
voice reached a new militant pitch. “Lady, you need to move on!” I
detected a hint of a Southern drawl. Convinced no argument would
provoke his compassion, I inched my car forward with dread in my
heart. I drove the remainder of the stretch home in utter disbelief,
with chaos clanging through my brain.
It was completely unnatural to arrive home in the middle of the
day. Constance’s car was gone, which meant she was at her studio,
oblivious to the tragedy on Bridgeway Boulevard. I pictured her
hunched over her drawing board, completely lost in her sketches
and swirling colors as she brought the ballet to life with her creative
interpretations. I envied her in an entirely new way. She would
probably never know the fate that had just wrapped its tentacles
around my heart.
I raced into the cottage, but even in the quick fifty steps from
my car to the front door, I was drenched. My purple silk blouse was
splattered with raindrops, giving it a black cast as it clung to my
skin. My mascara was smeared, not from the rain, but from the
crying episode I’d finally allowed to break forth in the final miles I
drove toward my cottage. I had no idea what to do. I reached for the
bottle of vodka in the freezer. I poured it directly into a glass without
the aid of a shot glass. I drank it quickly as the liquid seared down
the arch of my throat. I choked from the assault to my tender tissues
unaccustomed to the harshness of raw booze. But the minute it
calmed, I repeated the act.
I reached instinctively to the phone and called Gregory’s
number. When his voice greeted me, I was calmed, confident there
had just been a major error, a misidentification worthy of a
newsmagazine segment. Yet, something told me it would be
pointless to leave a message. A contradiction to what I wanted to
believe. I put the receiver back on the cradle, and instantly, the
phone rang. My heart soared. I expected it to be Gregory. I knew I
would prove them wrong. But it was I who was mistaken. It was Jill.
“How are you?” she asked.
“Ummm. I don’t really know. I called his house, Jill. Everything
seems normal. His voice mail came on. Everything seems exactly as
it was this morning. This can’t be happening.”
“I know, sweetie. But it has happened. They’ve taken his body
to the morgue. His parents are leaving in an hour to fly up here.”
“His brothers?” I asked
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“Yes. His brothers too,” she confirmed.
“I didn’t meet them when they were here. I don’t even know
them.” I said it as more of a statement to the empty room than to Jill.
“Oh, Alicia. I wish this hadn’t happened. I know you were
completely in love with him.”
The past tense didn’t escape my notice.
“Should I go down there?” I asked her.
“Jeez, Alicia, I don’t know what to say. I’m sure it’s going to be
a lot of legal stuff. Identification. Planning to get his body back
home. I’m not sure if there will be much you can do.”
The harshness of her forensic portrayal bothered me. But she
was right, and I couldn’t imagine introducing myself to his family
under those circumstances.
The chill of my wet clothes set in, and I told Jill I needed to get
into some dry clothes. I was glad she didn’t mention Constance
picking me up so I didn’t have to keep up that pretense. I hung up
the phone and stared at the rain drizzling down the front windows.
Just hours ago, I had said good-bye to Gregory for the final
time. I couldn’t imagine never seeing his face again, those passionate
eyes, the curve of his jaw. I would never feel his arms around me, lay
my head against his chest, or have his lips upon mine. I started to
hyperventilate and threw down a third shot of vodka to deaden my
shock further and went downstairs to relinquish my drenched outfit.
After I showered and stepped out of the drenching warmth, I
collapsed to the floor, finally overcome with the mounting emotions
from the day. I cried there on the floor, huddled in the towels and
rugs for what felt like hours. Once the tears subsided, I roamed
around the cottage as if anesthetized.
I called Gregory’s house again. Just as earlier in the day, his
voice calmed me. Certainly, he wasn’t dead. Jill might be a very
smart person, but she was entirely wrong this time. I felt a rush of
irritation he would disappear and cause so much worry and
confusion. The belief it was Gregory prevented them from searching
for the real identity of the victim. I felt responsible. Maybe he had
panicked about the possibility I was pregnant and had just taken a
long drive along the waterfront to think about our options.
But as the hours slipped past, the reality of his absence sunk in,
and I was the one who was panicked. An unmistakable instinct
within convinced me it was true. Gregory was dead. And it was
incomprehensible. It was utterly unthinkable, because the thought of
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losing Gregory from my life in this manner, in any manner, had
never entered my mind. Nothing even remotely close to it. I had
been afraid he would move back to Southern California, or an exgirlfriend
would win him back, even Joe taking action and trying to
break us up. But never death. Never tragedy. Never such a harsh,
abrupt conclusion to such a remarkable relationship.
The dark skies were still rumbling rain as I sat in my reading
nook with only the glow of the reading lamp lighting the expanse of
the cottage, completely bewildered. I hadn’t met Gregory’s parents
or brothers. I wasn’t even sure they knew if I existed. I doubted Jill
would even tell me where they were staying, and even then, I didn’t
know how I would introduce myself.
My own family didn’t know about Gregory. It had been too
soon after Joe to tell them about a new relationship. They would
have viewed it as irresponsible to jump into a new relationship so
soon after Joe, regardless of how long before our breakup the
relationship had actually ended. Who could help me through this?
Who could possibly relate to this? Not my parents, not my sisters,
not even Constance. Especially not Constance. Telling Constance
would only crystallize the reality I wanted to continue to deny. I
wandered back to the vodka. I couldn’t down another shot, so I
mixed myself a potent concoction with tonic instead. I felt lost,
hopeless, uncertain how to react to this tragedy.
Finally, I called home. As soon as my father’s groggy voice
grunted out, “Hello,” I realized I’d forgotten about the time
difference and they’d likely been in bed for two hours already.
“Dad?” My voice shot up an octave, and raging tears sprang
out.
“Who is this?” He didn’t have his bearings yet.
“Dad, it’s Alicia.” My vodka-induced greeting was slurred.
“What’s the matter?”
“Something terrible has happened.” I had to think quickly
about what to say next, as I knew he had no idea who Gregory was.
“A man I work with died today.”
“At work?”
“No, Dad. Before work. He was out riding his bike, and he was
hit by a car. The rain was horrible.”
“Well who would be out riding a bike in the rain?” My dad,
always with the conservative viewpoint.
“He’s an athlete, Dad.”
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“I thought this was somebody you worked with?”
“It is.”
“I thought you all only wrote about athletes. I didn’t know
some of them worked there.”
“No, Dad. He was training for his first triathlon. It was
something he did outside of work. He was a copywriter at one of the
magazines,” I tried to clarify for him.
“I see,” he said. I wasn’t sure he did. “So this guy, does he have
a family?”
“Yes, he does. His parents and three brothers.”
“I meant, does he have children? A wife?”
“No. He wasn’t married and didn’t have kids.” I took a deep
breath and continued. “Actually, Dad, I was seeing him.”
“At work?” I could just see my dad’s confused look. Huddled in
bed, the phone gripped tightly for him to hear, but with a furrowed
brow, trying to make sense of his babbling daughter.
“No, not at work. We…we’re…we’ve been dating, Dad.”
“Is this what the thing with Joe is all about? I swear, Alicia. I
would never have thought you were capable of this!” I was certain
he was sitting bolt upright in bed now.
“No, Dad. This has nothing to do with Joe and me. Joe and I
were over long before this ever started.”
“Well, considering it’s only been a few months, I would say this
is certainly a lot of news to take in.”
I immediately regretted having kept the truth from my parents
far longer than I should have. I don’t know why I didn’t learn my
lesson withholding the relationship from Joe. “Honestly, Dad, Joe
and I made the decision to call off the engagement long before we
told everyone. We broke it off back before the holidays, last summer,
quite frankly. And that’s just when it became intolerable, so it had
been falling apart long before then. I just never had the courage to
tell you.” The words were coming easily, and I wished I had
confided in him sooner.
“Well, okay then.” That was my dad, always stumped for what
to say. “Do you need anything? How’s the car running?”
“It’s running just fine, Dad. I just wanted to call, because I was
so upset, and I don’t have many friends out here.”
“Well, okay then. Do you want to come home for a while? You
have lots of friends here.”
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“That might be good, but I don’t know when the funeral is, or
where.”
“Well you just let us know if you need some help.”
“I will, Dad. I will.” I let the phone slip out of my hands,
confused by my own action to call home. What had I expected to gain
from that?
I groped my way in the dark down to my bedroom. I tried to
fall asleep, but the images of the night before, Gregory massaging
my back, the heat of his body against mine, intruded. I clenched the
blankets tightly, and the tears were relentless. My eyes were
scorched and swollen. Just when the tears would subside, fooling me
I might be able to fall asleep, another avalanche came. I couldn’t
force away images of his body, lifeless, cold, and rigid, on some cold,
sterile metal table. His handsome face cloaked in a stiff blanket with
an inventory code stenciled on its hem. I shuddered. His giant
hands, limp by his sides. I raised my arm toward the roof and fought
against the thought he no longer had the ability to move, to breathe,
to think, to see, to swallow, to kiss, to feel, to exist.
I had to get out of bed. I was losing the fight against my tears
and the need for sleep. I climbed the stairs to the kitchen, bracing
myself on the handrails, uncertain and dazed. I poured a glass of
cold water, the sensation in my throat a welcome change from the
blistering vodka. My thirst was intense, so I gulped down another
glass. The night moon cast a glow into the cottage and illuminated
my library. I remembered Gregory standing there, arms spread,
proclaiming the possibilities of my little library. His booming voice,
his optimism, his energy, the broad smile, the adventurous
personality that never would have contemplated then that within
four months he would be taken from this life.
The unfairness of it staggered me.
I grabbed the phone and started to dial Constance’s phone
number. I slammed it back in its cradle. It was too late. I swiped it
back up, and I called Gregory’s number yet again. His sultry,
seductive voice came on, and I had to hold myself steady on the
counter. My heart was thumping in my chest, and the grief was
blinding. I dialed Constance’s number again, this time completing
the call. I knew it was beyond late, and I also knew she would
forgive me considering the tragedy.
She answered with a knowing question. “What’s wrong?”
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“Constance,” I wailed, “Gregory died today,” as I fell to the
ground weeping.
“No! Oh my God, Alicia. This can’t be!” She was as incredulous
as I expected.
“I wish. Oh God, how I wish it wasn’t true. More than you can
ever know. I thought…I thought he was just spooked by how serious
things were getting because we had this really intense week between
us. And he didn’t show up for work today, so I was worried he just
needed to get away from it all for a while. But then Cyndi just came
into my office and told me he had died, and I didn’t want to believe
her.” I was rattling on through my sobs.
There was a knock at the door. I realized I had been talking to
an empty receiver. Constance was there knocking. I barely had the
door opened, and she was inside and holding me.
“Oh, sweetie. I am so sorry. This is so tragic. This is so wrong.”
I had no words left and bellowed out more sobs. She slid the
door shut with her foot and ushered me toward the couches. We
crumpled onto the sofa.
“You’re the only one who knows. You’re the only one who
knows how much he meant to me,” I wailed.
“I know. I know.” She just held me tighter and tighter.
I told her about what I had heard about the accident, about
driving home and seeing a part of his bike mangled on the road. I
told her how I didn’t want to believe the truth he was gone. I wept
for what felt like days, but the sun had yet to peek through the
windows. Only the moonlight glaring through the upper windows
lit our embrace.
I felt myself finally dozing off when Constance murmured,
“Good. Good, sweetie. Get some sleep. You’re going to need your
rest to face the coming days.”
“I can’t sleep. I’ve tried all night,” I argued. “That’s why I had
to call you so late.”
“Let’s get you downstairs. I can get you to sleep,” she said as
she helped me to my feet. I still had the phone clasped in my hand.
Constance unraveled my fingers from the handset and just as she
placed it on the coffee table turned to ask, “Would you feel better
keeping it with you?”
I nodded in confirmation.
We made our way downstairs. I collapsed on the bed, but
memories of sleeping there with Gregory ruptured my tranquility. I
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inhaled his scent every time I turned; his cologne penetrated the
sheets, his fragrant hair creams emanated from the pillowcases, his
distinctive, mingled scents that were uniquely him
“Here. This will help,” Constance said as she laid a cool
washcloth over my eyes. “This will help soothe your eyes.”
She lay down next to me on top of the covers and told me roll
on my side. I rolled, facing away from her, and she began to graze
her fingernails up and down my arm, sending soothing vibrations
through my skin. Occasionally, she traced her fingertips along the
slope of my shoulders and into my hair. The sensation was peaceful
and calming. It reminded me of napping with my mom and when
she would glide her nails along my cheeks, creating a slightly
tickling but satisfying urge, like finally scratching an itch. With her
gentle caresses guiding me, I slipped into a deep sleep.
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Page 157
hapter
I awakened, what felt like days later, with Constance sleeping
silently next to me. Dawn was about to break, so the only light was
the faint moon dropping from the sky, barely illuminating her
cheekbones. My head was throbbing, and queasiness brewed in my
belly. I rolled onto my side, letting my legs slip off the end of the
mattress in a slow, deliberate motion to avoid waking her. In the
gauzy light, I tiptoed toward the bathroom, and shut the door
completely before I hit the light switch. Bending over the sink, the
cold bursts of water I splashed onto my face couldn’t erase my
swollen eyes and sallow skin. I stared into my vacant eyes,
incredulous how starkly different this morning was compared to the
day before. Waking to take the pregnancy test, full of hope and
promise of whether I was going to have a baby with Gregory, to
facing a life stripped of its promise and pleasure.
I hadn’t thought about the test result since hearing the
devastating news he had died. Had he heard the message? Did he know?
Did he die without the knowledge of whether I was pregnant or not?
I couldn’t bear the thought. Maybe he had also been unable to
sleep not knowing what the test would reveal. Maybe he was
worried about how a pregnancy would so radically changed both
our lives. Had he gone out earlier than normal? Was he riding
distracted, tired from lack of sleep? Had I caused his accident? I
shuddered at the thought my situation might have contributed to his
death. If I had let him stay overnight like he had wanted to, he
would still be alive. The thought was excruciating, and I tried to not
let my mind go down there.
I was exhausted, yet going back to bed seemed meaningless, as
my racing mind wasn’t about to let me drift back to sleep. I plucked
my way through clothes in my dark closet to grab my heaviest,
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warmest clothes to slip into. Sneaking upstairs, avoiding the
creaking step at the landing. I first wandered into the kitchen.
Nothing about the morning seemed right. I didn’t crave coffee.
Making breakfast would have had too much of an air of normalcy. I
padded across the cold floor with light steps and quietly opened the
front door, hoping the frame wouldn’t be too swollen from the rain
and stick. It made a grating noise, but opened on the second pull,
with less noise. The wood of the deck was saturated, and the seams
of my slippers were damp in the very few first steps. The chairs were
also saturated, but I sat down anyway. The gloomy, overcast sky
was perfect punctuation to my misery.
Sitting on the deck brought multiple images of Gregory and I
grilling dinner, enjoying cocktails, talking and laughing by the
flames in the fire pit. And dancing. We had danced on the deck on
New Year’s Eve, the night we first made love. The memory sparked
another jolt of tears. I had no place where memories weren’t
palpable, no little slice of the cottage that didn’t just seep of his
presence. When the wet chairs soaked through to my skin, I moved
to the front couches, but I needed to face away from our cherished
library nook we’d created. I lay there and wept until Constance
woke a few hours later. She wanted to spend the day with me, but I
convinced her I needed the time alone. The minute she left, I
regretted the decision. I was aimless.
Around 10:00 a.m., I realized I’d forgotten to call Richard. I was
unprepared when he answered the phone himself. I was apologetic,
but Jill had already alerted him as she had promised me. He was
sympathetic and only said he had no idea about my relationship.
“Last I knew, you were with the guy from Colorado.”
I sensed some unspoken thought, like obviously I hadn’t been
with Gregory long enough for anything serious to have developed.
Or worse, did he think I had been cheating with Gregory?
“I figured you would know. I thought our office gossip was
better than that. I’ll get the word out we’re not getting the job done,”
I quipped. The comment fell flat. Richard and I weren’t at that level
of discourse, and my comment was totally inappropriate considering
the gravity of the topic.
I called Jill next. She was sympathetic on the phone as she read
me the details from the office announcement. “The funeral will be at
two p.m., the twenty-ninth, at Our Lady of Hope Cathedral.” She
paused. “That’s in Southern California.” It stung she didn’t even
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give me credit for knowing as much as I did about his life before
SportsZone. Then she said, “Alicia, I am so sorry. You didn’t even
have enough time to develop a real relationship.”
“It felt real enough to me, Jill,” I said tersely.
“Oh God. I mean…You know what I mean…You didn’t get
enough time together.” I could just see her fiddling with her hair on
the other end of the phone.
“I know what you’re trying to say,” I told her even though I
knew she was implying in just five brief months, I couldn’t have
possibly developed any depth in my relationship with Gregory.
I packed for Gregory’s funeral numbly. It shouldn’t have
mattered what I would wear, but it had become the most distorted
twist on meeting your boyfriend’s parents for the first time. I made a
few calls to various airlines, but fares to Southern California were
outrageously expensive. As if anyone had the luxury of planning for
an emergency flight, those who needed the discounts in trying times
were penalized in price the most. Since the funeral was a few days
away, I decided I could drive there, hoping the long drive along the
coast would be therapeutic for my state of mind.
Two of my classmates from college had moved out to Southern
California after graduation, and they immediately offered to let me
stay with them when I called to tell them the horrible reason for my
trip down their direction. Familiarity of friends sounded much better
than staying at a hotel.
Constance called to check in on me after lunch. I did a poor job
of persuading her not to come down after work. After we spoke, my
exhaustion finally won out, and I slept hard until I heard
Constance’s knock signaling her return. When I opened the door, she
was there with arms full of grocery bags as she declared I needed a
good meal. She seemed surprised when I opted for a vodka cocktail
over wine, but she didn’t comment.
Our normally animated conversation was tempered by the
tragedy of Gregory’s death. She just listened as I talked and cried
about all the things I shared with Gregory and mourned all the
things I would miss ever experiencing with him. I had never seen
her so quiet. Constance offered to stay with me again, but I told her I
wanted to get an early start in the morning, and since I was going to
be gone for a few days, I sent her home with more food than she had
brought.
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Driving out of San Francisco, it was yet another gloomy,
rainy day, but by the time I reached San Luis Obispo, the sun was
streaming down. I drove with my sunroof open, with the music
volume at the highest decibel to compensate for the noise from the
road. The disbelief of Gregory’s death still allowed me a high
measure of numbness, but reality had begun to take a harder grip on
me as the days had progressed. The silence of the phone, the
realization I would never see his face again, never feel the heat from
his touch, never wake to the promise of a new day with him, created
an unrelenting ache in my core.
I sobbed nearly the entire duration of the trip, making
occasional stops on the road when emotions overcame me. I avoided
the pitied looks from the clerks at convenience stores more
accustomed to excited vacationers and travelers on less
heartbreaking trips than a solo trek to a funeral. I alternated between
excessive speed and driving in a daze toward the dreaded
destination. My trip should have taken six or seven hours, but it took
nearly three hours longer with my multiple stops and erratic driving.
As I drove down the Santa Ana freeway, I realized fully how
disconnected I was from the whole process. I hadn’t been a part of
the preparations. What music had they chosen? Who would be
giving the eulogy? I didn’t know if there would be a casket or, God
forbid, an open casket. Would he be cremated? We had never talked
about our beliefs about death.
I assumed his family would be together tonight, but had no idea
where. I wouldn’t be a participant in his funeral, merely a guest. As
contrary as it felt to the depth of our relationship, I was powerless to
change the situation. No one in his life knew who I was, not at work,
not back home, and certainly not within his family. Even if I had the
courage to come forward and pronounce the significance of my bond
to Gregory, it would seem a shallow effort. We had kept a low
profile when we were together because of work, so few people
outside of Constance even knew anything about us dating. I
certainly couldn’t convey the scope of our relationship with mere
words.
I knew I could call Constance and she would give me the
strength I needed to make it through the funeral. But I had leaned on
her so heavily the previous days, I knew she needed the break to
regroup herself. The look in her eyes after she had helped me load
my suitcase into the trunk was heart-wrenching. Her expression
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spoke to me with a tenderness that defied words. Without even a
word uttered, her compassion was evident. She started to speak, but
her words caught. Her hand flew to cover her lips as she crumpled
into a shivering mess, unable to say what she intended. I was equally
unable to muster anything, so we had no last parting words, just
shaking our heads in silent agreement what had happened was truly
unspeakable.
I listened to my instinct not to call Constance. I would have to
talk to Julie and Jennifer instead. They were empathetic when I
arrived at their apartment door. Eyes bleary and puffed from nine
hours of road-ravaged crying, they barely recognized me.
“Oh my God, Alicia. You poor thing!” Julie cried out when she
saw me. Then Jennifer wrapped her arms around us both and
mumbled something I couldn’t understand through combined tears
of happiness to see me and pain for my loss. They pulled me and my
bags inside, talking over each other, both wanting to seem more
gracious and hospitable than the other.
“It’s rather small. Rents are out of control here.” Julie clipped
each word with an enunciation different from when I knew her in
college.
“I hope the sofa bed will be okay for you. There isn’t a bite of
food in the house. We usually eat out or order pizza every night
anyway.”
Before I knew it, we were in Julie’s hot pink convertible Bug,
whizzing down the freeway, weaving between Mercedes, BMWs,
Jaguars, and every other foreign, expensive car that got in her way.
My hair was whipping against my face in a wild frenzy. I finally got
most of it into my fist, but occasionally a strand would come loose
from my grasp and make stinging lashes at my cheeks until I could
wrangle it under control again. Julie zipped the car into a lone
parking spot b
efore the driver in the car approaching from the other direction
even had a chance to react. The whirring of the motor to raise the
white convertible top sounded painful until it made a final grinding
noise as it plopped forward onto the frame. Jennifer and I watched
helplessly as Julie struggled to fasten the latches. As we walked to
the restaurant entry, I looked back at the squat little neon car that
looked obnoxiously out of place in the sea of luxury coupes, sedans,
and SUVs.
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I wasn’t in the frame of mind for a social scene, but happy hour
was in full swing, and there was an hour wait for a table. Our only
option was to take an open table in the bar. Liquor sounded less
appetizing than food with my belly growling from driving straight
through since breakfast and only snacks from my convenience store
stops, but I didn’t have much of a choice, so I ordered a martini
straight up.
“So tell us about San Francisco, Alicia. Can you even believe the
three of us are now living in California? Who would have ever
imagined?”
Who would have imagined? Exactly. Who would have imagined just a
few months ago, I had found the man of my dreams and now I’m having
cocktails with two women I barely have anything in common with, more
caught up in the trendy Southern California scene than my loss, as I’m
about attend his funeral and watch all my hopes of true love buried?
I regretted my choice to reach out to them.
Julie and Jennifer seemed only partially interested in my
responses, but completely interested in the men who were lined up
at the bar. It didn’t take long for us to be approached. Three men
walked up to our booth and asked if they could join us. I tried to
protest, but Jennifer motioned them to join us.
As we shuffled our chairs to make room for them, the man who
jostled in closest to me said, “You look like you just lost your best
friend.”
The words pierced my heart, and I felt tears about to burst
forth. I excused myself in a slightly hysterical voice that brought
questioning looks to the men’s faces as I fled toward the bathroom.
“She did just lose her best friend,” I heard Julie say, coming to
my defense as I sped away from the table.
When I returned, I was greeted by five humbled faces. The
unknowingly tactless man spoke first. “I am so embarrassed by what
I said. I had no idea.” His apology seemed genuine.
“Of course you didn’t. I understand. Thank you.”
“I wouldn’t expect a woman who just lost her boyfriend would
be out having drinks the night before a funeral. Shouldn’t you be
with his family?”
“You’re just trying to really make me dislike you, aren’t you?” I
retorted. “It’s a long story. Neither of us lived here, so I haven’t even
met his family.”
“How long had you dated?” one of the other men asked me.
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“Just about six months.”
“Well then, there you go. There’s no telling how long you might
have been together. The early months are bliss. You may not have
even stayed together.”
“You are a callous son of a bitch!” I spit at him. I tried to remain
composed, but my voice trembled.
“No, I just mean only time would tell whether or not you had a
future. Maybe this wasn’t meant to be.”
“Obviously it wasn’t meant to be since he’s dead! I guess no one
will ever know what, if any, future we might have had, now will
they?” Livid, I grabbed my purse and glared at Julie and Jennifer to
communicate it was time to go.
Jennifer spoke first. “Alicia, I think he’s just trying to say it’s
really a very sad situation. But imagine if this had happened a few
years from now and you were, like, really in love, or if you were
married. You would really be devastated. This was, like, so new, you
know?”
“Unreal. You are unreal. A man has died,” I spewed at them.
“An incredibly talented and generous man. Regardless of the nature
or depth of our relationship, which I assure you was very powerful,
any death is something to be mourned. You can’t tell a person she
shouldn’t care about losing someone who she only knew for a few
months. The length of time has no bearing on the meaning or value
of the relationship. And in fact, I felt more about him in that short
time than I do for someone I dated for over three years. There isn’t
any timetable to gauge the significance of a relationship.”
“We’re not saying you shouldn’t care,” Julie added. “Just keep
it in perspective. You are young. You’re going to meet a ton of new
men in your life.”
“I don’t want any other man in my life. I want Gregory.” I
couldn’t believe their insensitivity. “Can you please give me one of
your apartment keys? I’ll take a taxi back to the apartment. You can
stay here. I just need some time to myself.”
“Don’t go, Alicia,” Julie pleaded as she fished her keychain out
of her purse. But it was clear she was attracted to the guys who had
joined us and seemed ready for an evening without the drain of a
mourning, ex-whatever it is I was to a dead guy they knew nothing
about.
After the taxi driver dropped me off at the apartment, I was too
wound up from the exchange at the bar to try to fall asleep. The
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apartment balcony overlooked the pool, where swaying palm trees
lit with tiny white lights and the calming trickle of a fountain called
to me. I found a half-full bottle of wine in the refrigerator and
poured it into a plastic tumbler and descended down the clanking
cement stairs toward the rippling neon blue water.
The night air was brisk, but still much warmer than home. The
smog and haze of the city lights caused too much ambient light to
see any stars in the sky. I dragged a lounge chair closer to the water’s
edge, its legs scraping across the coarse cement. I sat down on the
lower end, nearly toppling into the pool before I righted myself and
began sipping the wine, mesmerized by the rotating colors of light
reflected on the water’s surface. I felt so bizarrely out of touch with
reality. The comments from the men and my friends still incited me.
But they had a point. Our relationship was still very new. Had we
simply been caught up in those first months of infatuation? Was the
attraction bound to wear thin? Were there warning signs that I had
overlooked as I had with Joe? Was I delusional that the bond between
Gregory and I was deeper than it really was?
Doubts were intruding.
Gregory had totally captivated me. His intellect, his sexiness,
his humor, his wit, his laughter, his sparkling eyes, his taut body, his
easy smile, his intent looks over a frustrating news event, his relish
of life, his deep introspections, his undeniable charisma. There was
nothing I saw which agitated or aggravated or dissatisfied me. But
he was gone. Dead. And the tears began again.
I woke the following morning stiff and sore from the
unforgiving skeleton of the sofa bed that pinched and poked me
throughout the night. My head was equally stiff and sore having
consumed the just-past-ripe wine. Julie and Jennifer had finally
rolled in well after midnight, drunk. Unaware I was already awake,
they hushed each other in loud whispers, but with each giggling
hush, their voices crept louder.
They were equally unsuccessful to not disturb this morning as
they descended with a clamor in the kitchen to make coffee and
breakfast.
“Do you think we should wake her?” Jennifer asked.
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“No. Let her sleep. It’s going to be a hard day for her. She’s
going to need her energy.” Julie was at least able to have some level
of sensibility in the daylight. “We’ll leave her a note we’ll be back
from work around six p.m., and we will not repeat the conversations
from last night.” she said to Jennifer sternly.
I was relieved when the door finally slid soundly into its latch,
signaling their departure. I had at least a few hours before I needed
to leave for the funeral, but the threadbare sofa bed, compressed
from years of use, propelled me out of bed. I showered mechanically.
When I wiped away the beads of moisture from the mirror, I barely
recognized the woman I saw. My bloated eyes created puny slits,
distorting my face like a caricature. My hair was a tangled wreck,
with big clumps sticking out at all angles. Attempting mascara was
futile, and cosmetics would be pointless. I would have to meet
Gregory’s family looking my absolute worst. I forced a brush
through my wet, snarled hair, finally taming it into a sleek ponytail.
Simplicity was the best I could muster.
It had been just days earlier, in the cold light of the morning in
the cottage bathroom, when my life seemed on a perilous edge. Not
knowing if I was pregnant, the insecurity of what life had in store for
me next. Never in my wildest dreams had I anticipated anything this
catastrophic. A baby, an unplanned pregnancy, I could have dealt
with. Regardless of whether Gregory would have stayed with me or
not, it was a manageable dilemma. Gregory dying was outside the
realm of anything I knew how to manage. I longed for home. I
longed to have Constance there to hold on to me and tell me I would
wake up from this nightmare. I dropped my face into my hands as
lurching sobs overcame me.
After my tears subsided, I went into Julie’s bedroom to get a
quick rest on a comfortable bed before the funeral. As I crawled onto
the firm mattress, I saw a photo collage hanging over her nightstand.
Smiling faces peered at me, recognizable places and faces from my
hometown. One picture glared at me. It was of Julie and me,
probably around nineteen years old, by the pond on our college
campus. We hadn’t settled on a major yet, had no aspirations or set
goals other than what we had planned for the weekend. Our eyes
depicted a time of wandering, with no concrete direction for our
lives, living day to day with no cares or worries. I couldn’t
remember the specific day the picture was taken, but I did know at
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the time I had no idea I would see that image of myself years later
and feel no more certain about the direction of my life.
Lying down on top of Julie’s bedding, I had about an hour to
doze, just enough time to feel a little more refreshed. I decided I’d
just drive back north after the funeral. I had planned to stay an
additional night, but had no desire to be around Julie and Jennifer.
They couldn’t relate to my situation, and being alone was far more
appealing. When I left their apartment with my luggage in tow, I left
an insincere good-bye note, thanking them for their hospitality.
By the time I found the church, I was frantic. I hadn’t allowed
time for traffic in the middle of the day, and the freeways had been
unexpectedly heavy. When I finally saw the cathedral spires, it was
ten minutes until the start of the service. The parking lot was
overflowing with cars still waiting to enter, so I passed the church
and found a space three blocks past it. I ran toward the cathedral,
wobbling in my heels, glancing frantically at my watch the entire
way.
As I entered through the massive doors, Gregory’s pewter
casket was being rolled to the front of the church. Two huge photos
of him were mounted just to the right of the entrance. One I had seen
framed on his desk in his apartment. It was a professional photo
done for his college yearbook, Gregory, outdoors, leaning against a
tree trunk in a crimson sweater with a stark white collar, with his
easy smile, his deep eyes sparkling with promise. The photo was
from his waist up, but you could tell even from the photo his size
and stature. The second photo, I hadn’t seen before. It was Gregory
on the beach, standing with oars, a bright yellow canoe behind him.
It looked like a recent photo. His hair was wet, curls springing forth,
his strong, sturdy chest, rippled and tanned. My heart did a flip.
How I missed seeing him as he was, athletic, handsome, and alive.
To the left, I saw another easel with dozens of photos tacked up
like collages created by grade-school kids. Lured to the pictures,
wanting more insights into the periods of Gregory’s life I never
knew, but my curiosity was squelched when the priest began his
oration, so I entered the church instead. Shocked there wasn’t a
single open seat, my only option was to stand against the pillars in
the back. The cathedral was massive, but the assembly of mourners
exceeded its capacity. People continued to arrive, so I kept shifting
over along the periphery of the church to accommodate them.
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The service was a traditional Mass structure with little
personalization. It was obvious the priest had never met Gregory, as
he spoke only in general terms about his life and his contribution to
the world. Finally, in the eulogy, an uncle took the podium and
spoke. He revealed the true aspects of the loss of Gregory. The
writer. The athlete. The intellect. The artist. A man of many levels
and layers, complex and good-hearted. A devoted son and brother.
Respectful of his parents. A baby brother. Generous and giving. The
power he brought to those he touched.
Exiting the service, I saw his parents and brothers for the first
time, recognizing them from the unmistakable features they shared
with Gregory. They were swarmed. Unable to get close to them, I
wandered over to the photo boards. The pictures were fascinating,
images of Gregory in phases of his life before I knew him, baby
photos, grade school, awkward teenage years, and multiple pictures
with family and friends. And then I saw the picture that ripped my
heart out, Gregory gazing with admiration at a beautiful brunette as
she smiled broadly at the camera. A second photo of them together
was tacked prominently on top of some of the other pictures, the two
of them in swimsuits, cuddled in each other’s arms on a beach,
laughing. I closed my eyes, but the image had been seared into my
memory.
We had no pictures of us together. Neither of us took a lot of
photos, and since we spent most of our time alone, I had no image to
add to the collage, no tangible evidence of our happiness. I was lost
in a gaping hole of anonymity.
I made my way over to introduce myself to his parents when I
saw the crowd disperse some. His brothers were still completely
bombarded by people.
“Hello. I’m Alicia Riverdale,” I said to them hopefully, but no
recognition registered in them. “I work at SportsZone. Gregory and
I…” An apt description of our relationship failed to form as words,
so I stopped midsentence. “I know you were out to see him recently.
I’m sorry I didn’t get to meet you then.”
Just then, a wail rang out, piercing through the hushed
conversations in the vestibule.
“That’s Gregory’s ex-girlfriend from college,” his mother
explained with a pitied look. “She’s really having a tough time with
this.”
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She whispered the sentence as if confiding in me, totally
unaware of the gravity of her comment.
“It was so nice of you to come all this way.” she said politely
but distracted as she took her husband’s arm and walked away from
me to console the woman I recognized from the loving picture on the
photo board.
I couldn’t get out of the church fast enough. I felt alienated and
so utterly anonymous. I had no identity in Gregory’s life. What we
had was separate and distinct from the life he’d had here in Southern
California. They all had their own stories, their own history, their
own memories of which I was not a part. No one had any idea who I
was or what Gregory and I shared in the last few months of his life.
I made my way outside, invisible among the throngs of people,
just as the pallbearers were loading the casket into the hearse. The
men were all young and handsome, various faces I had seen in
photos either at Gregory’s or on the photo collage. Knowing
Gregory’s body lay lifeless in the encasement nearly sent me into
hyperventilation. I wanted to be anywhere but where I was, but I
couldn’t bear to leave while Gregory’s coffin was still within my
sight. The somber young men loaded the polished pewter casket
carefully, but the movement created a tremor in the draping spray
bouquet. The doors of the hearse closed shut with a finality that
resounded in my soul.
Cars were already positioned to follow the hearse to the
cemetery, headlights on in a solemn display. The stream snaked out
of the parking lot and around the corner, out of sight. I didn’t even
momentarily think about joining the procession. I couldn’t face
going to the cemetery. Feeling like an intruder among his closest
family and friends was unbearable. I didn’t want to be isolated,
relegated to the outskirts of the situation, straining to see over the
heads of others, while the family and the former love of Gregory
stood resolutely together. It was too much of a contradiction to the
sacredness of our love. I was the sole car exiting the church parking
lot going in the opposite direction.
Page 169
Chapter
I returned to the cottage totally numb. Constance didn’t know I
was coming home a day early, so she wasn’t waiting for my arrival. I
worried I might frighten her pulling into the driveway just before
midnight, so I cut my headlights as I pulled off Paradise Drive. The
dim glow of a partial moon gave me barely enough light to inch
down the drive toward the cottage. The cottage no longer seemed
the safe haven for me it once had. So many wonderful nights were
spent there with Gregory, so many memories embedded into its
walls, reminding me of what I had lost. When I had first found the
cottage, Constance had said the last woman who had lived there
moved out when she got married. What a cruel irony. Why had the
same fortune eluded me and Gregory?
I lugged my bag from the trunk into the cottage. I dropped it in
the front room and, without even removing my jacket, went straight
to the freezer for the bottle of vodka. The cheap wine at Julie and
Jennifer’s had given me a wicked hangover, so I craved the smooth
pace of intoxication I got with the clear elixir. I downed two shots
and leaned all my weight against the counter. The nightmare of
Gregory dying was compounded by the distress of the day. I was left
alone, with no place or position in Gregory’s life. I hadn’t ever
considered this as a possible outcome. Not disclosing our
relationship to protect my job and avoid Joe’s retaliation had been a
reckless decision, leaving me very few people to help support me
through my pain and grief. The vodka bottle provoked me to take
another shot. It was my best resource to help subdue the ache.
I went to bed without unpacking my bags. My weariness finally
allowed me a deep night’s sleep. I didn’t trust the clock display of
2:00 p.m. when I finally woke up. I didn’t bother with a robe and
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went upstairs to validate the time. It really was 2:00 p.m. I had slept
over twelve hours straight. For the first time in days, I felt rested and
refreshed. But energy served no purpose for me. I had no desire, no
interest in any activity.
The voice-mail light flashed at me. I hadn’t noticed it earlier.
The first message was from Joe, another plea to come back to
Colorado. My sister left the second message. It was clear she had all
the facts confused about who had died and, like everyone else,
didn’t comprehend it was someone I was dating. The last message
was from Jill. The magazine was organizing a memorial for Gregory
since so many people had been unable to make the trip to Southern
California for his funeral. The memorial was going to be held the
following day. I shuddered to think I would have to repeat the fiasco
of the funeral.
“I already told Richard you’d probably be out the entire week. I
hope that’s okay?” she said sweetly. Then there was a long silence. “I
know I hurt your feelings the other day. I wasn’t thinking. I know
you really cared about him.”
But she didn’t know. She knew even less than Constance about
the magnitude of my love for Gregory. She didn’t know how much
time we had spent together, about our soul-searching conversations,
about the generous things he did for me, how he replaced my
treasured books, how he sang sappy romantic songs to me. She
didn’t know any of it.
Then I remembered the book Gregory had bought for me on our
first date. His words, perfectly penned in the inscription, indelible as
his mark on my heart. It would always be my treasured artifact, a
piece of evidence of the amazing spark between us, a little slice of
Gregory to always be mine. I had his sentiment in my book, and I
had every e-mail message he had sent. I knew I could print them and
capture some of his talent in the beautiful, touching, and at times,
sensual words he had written to me. I could go to the office just to
read them again, but it was too soon to face anyone there. I was torn
between having to keep up the façade of not having a relationship
with him or trying to reveal it all now when it seemed so hollow in
the past tense. Jill’s message concluded with the location and time of
the memorial, and I spent the remainder of the day dreading the next
one to come.
The memorial was harder than I expected. I felt like a complete
nonentity all over again seeing all the preparation that went into it
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without my input or knowledge. No one was aware to include me. I
was surprised to see his parents and brothers arrive, but I had no
intention of attempting to talk to them again, unable to bear being
obscure in their eyes a second time.
The memorial was organized by the Trails staff, many of whom
I had never met in person, but whom I had heard many stories about
from Gregory. We had assembled at a small area in the wooded hills
of Mount Tamalpais, with downed redwoods for seating. The sun
was hot and stifling. I was overdressed in a dress and heels
compared to many of the magazine staff, who came in shorts and
sandals.
A man I didn’t recognize played simple melodies on a guitar
accompanied by a flutist with kinky, brilliant red hair as Gregory’s
coworkers took turns at the podium in a specific order to convey
their words of sadness and hope; how it was fitting he died doing
what he loved, or how they intended to embrace life more as a result
of his passing. Most stories provoked laughter about Gregory’s
antics in the office. A few made me doubt how much I really knew
about him, some held distinct surprises.
His boss spoke most eloquently about Gregory, which was
another ironic twist, because Gregory despised him. When Gregory
had found out he was having an affair with their administrative
assistant, he had lost all respect for him; yet here he was, adulating
Gregory for the values he had demonstrated and the positive impact
he had made on the team.
It was a poignant memorial. When the crowd began to disperse,
I wasn’t sure where to go. I overheard a few people saying they
needed a drink to drown their sorrows, but it didn’t feel appropriate
to include myself. I knew a few faces from the office, but knew even
fewer of them by name. Cyndi had shown up for some reason, and
Jill had come as well, but she was going back to the office. I certainly
couldn’t go back to work yet. I watched his parents and brothers for
any chance of approaching them again, but they were mobbed by the
Trails staff.
Constance was across the bay doing the first costume fittings
before the ballet opening. She had come down the night before and
didn’t even have a bottle or glasses in hand.
“Want me to come with you tomorrow?” she had offered
empathetically.
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“No. I know how important this week is for you. I wouldn’t be
able to forgive myself if I jeopardized your job.”
“My job won’t be in jeopardy,” she said. “I can reschedule. And
I want to be there for you. You need a friend right now.”
“Then as my friend, you will go to your final fittings and
continue to be the only superstar I know and make me proud of
you!” I said resolutely and was thankful at the time she agreed.
But when I arrived at the memorial, I wasn’t nearly as confident
in my decision to be there unaccompanied. I watched cars disappear
down the hillside as I stood there alone. Gregory’s parents had
moved up to the roadside, still talking to his boss. One of his
brothers smiled in my direction, and I saw the similarity to Gregory.
It pierced my soul. Driving back to the cottage, I feared I would just
implode into a heaving mess of sobs, so I changed direction and
drove toward the coastline.
The memorial held on Mount Tamalpais was perfectly fitting.
Gregory loved the area and had introduced me to its gorgeous hills
and trails. It was his favorite biking training site.
The image of Gregory’s mangled bike flashed in front of me.
The horror of him dying in the cold, driving rain, hurled against the
hard steel of the car, the assault of crashing down onto the wet
asphalt, was unimaginable. I poured my anguish into the accelerator,
flying faster than I should through the winding turns. It wasn’t until
I nearly lost control on a particularly tight curve when I finally
slowed down. I drove aimlessly, without destination, along the
Shoreline Highway under the scorching sun, as if the further away I
drove, the less I would feel.
The skies were no longer torrential. It was just one week since
the tragedy. If Gregory had been out riding on a morning like today,
the skies would have been clear, the pavement dry, and he would
have escaped that fate. I couldn’t understand it all still.
Later that night, adrift in my pain, I called my parents, but they
continued to be thoroughly confused. “I don’t understand, darling.
This was a coworker of yours?” my mom asked. “It’s really sad, but
these things happen.” She often only mustered clichés that provided
little value in my most difficult moments.
“No, Mom. We had been dating for a while,” I offered feebly.
“That’s what your father told me, but I was sure he was
mistaken. I thought you and Joe were trying to work things out?”
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“We were, Mom, but it just got so complicated because Joe
wasn’t going to change. And then I met Gregory, and he was, well,
he was really intelligent and compassionate. He was so completely
opposite of Joe, and it showed me what I wanted in a man. And he
was writing this book.”
I wasn’t speaking coherently through my sobs, irrationality
took over the conversation.
“I know why you’re so upset, sweetheart. I just realized this is
the first death you’ve had to face since Grandma died,” my mother
said, believing her words were consoling me.
I wanted to scream, No that isn’t it at all, Mother. I was falling in
love. I know you think I was in love with Joe, but it was Gregory I was in
love with all this time. It just took Joe dragging me out here to find him.
A week later I got a check from my parents with an enclosed
note in my Dad’s painstakingly perfect writing that said:
We know the loss of your coworker really affected you. We’re very
sorry we can’t be there for you. Please go and buy yourself
something you will enjoy. Love, Mom & Dad
I dropped the check into the trash and went to bed and wept until
the darkness of the room finally engulfed me.
“We’ve missed you around here,” Richard said as he put his
arms around me my first day back at work. He had always treated
me with explicit professionalism, and I was unprepared for the
gesture of sympathy. I grabbed on to him with full force and sobbed.
“I had no idea. No idea at all,” he said.
“I know. I didn’t want to lose my job, so I didn’t want you to
know.”
“I am so sorry,” was all he kept saying. I was holding on to him
far longer than both our comfort levels, but I couldn’t stop crying.
Finally, Richard said, “Alicia, why don’t you go get yourself
together? I’ll leave you alone today. Just get yourself caught up on
everything, and when it’s time, we’ll get you back into the pace.”
I took advantage of the offer. But once I was finally back at my
desk composed, Jill walked in, and the cycle of tears and hugs began
in another flurry.
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I got absolutely nothing accomplished the entire day. I had
taken the ferry in, and luckily so, as the minute I hit the bench, I
buried myself in my coat and tears streamed down my face the
entire journey back to my side of the bay. I walked into my cottage a
broken person. Shaken in my deepest core, I was petrified about how
I was going to manage after losing the most amazing man I had ever
known.
So lost, I cried up to the black ceiling, “What I am I supposed to
do now?” Sobs wracked my body and my soul. I had such a perfect
life for such a brief space in time. Gregory was gone. I missed him so
desperately. His voice. His soothing touch. The security I felt
wrapped in his embrace. To never be able to wake to his gorgeous
profile, stroking his thick mane of curls, the purity of his skin, it
defied logic he was gone.
I found it incomprehensible someone so talented, so giving, so
free in this world would be taken away. Every few days I scrambled
through my closets. I wanted to find something I had worn that
retained his scent I could clutch and hold on to and feel close to him
when the tears overcame me. Once again, I came up empty-handed,
with nothing but my melancholy memories.
My second day at work was as unproductive as the first.
Constance came down with groceries that night.
“I’ve noticed you’ve gone back to work,” she said without
preamble as she began emptying contents onto the counter to start
dinner for us.
“I’ve tried. It’s not been very successful. Both days I went in
with good intentions, but couldn’t focus on any one task.”
“Imagine that,” she said sarcastically. “I can’t believe you’re
even attempting it this soon. You have to be patient. Grief is a
complex thing. It isn’t something you can just brush aside and go
about your merry way.”
“Funny you should say that. Do you know there are only
exactly a handful of people who even knew that I was involved with
Gregory?” I asked. “So if grief is a complex thing, I must be taking it
to a whole new level of complexity. I can’t even tell most people at
work. They have no idea. Joe doesn’t know. And don’t even get me
started on my parents. You are the person who knows the most
about our relationship. It’s obvious Gregory didn’t share anything
about us with anyone.” A tinge of bitterness had crept into my tone.
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“Now you don’t know that,” she offered. “Besides, weren’t you
the one who made the stipulation about the secrecy? It was your
rule, not his.”
“But the stipulation didn’t have to do with anyone outside of
work,” I said with an emphasis on “outside.” “When I introduced
myself to his parents, there wasn’t even a trace of recognition.”
Constance spun around from the cutting board. “Alicia, that
doesn’t mean anything. Do you know how many people they
interacted with that day? How many people came out of the
woodwork they had never met before? Friends, classmates,
coworkers, neighbors. I can tell you exactly what it was like for me at
both my parents’ funerals. I don’t remember a soul who was there.”
She pointed the knife at me to emphasize her point. “Don’t make any
assumptions as to what they did or didn’t know about you.” I had
apparently touched a nerve.
“You’re right,” I said unconvincingly. “I just feel so completely
meaningless in the context of his life.”
She put the knife down and walked toward me. She clasped my
face in her hands that reeked of onion and stared me directly in the
eyes.
“Alicia, it doesn’t matter who does or doesn’t know about you
and Gregory. You simply have to believe in the depth of your
relationship. I was there. I saw it. I felt it. What you had together
positively emanated from both of you. Know that. Remember that.
Your love will carry you through this heartache until you can be
together again on the other side.”
“But I miss him so much,” I said as the familiar tears pooled in
my eyes. “I don’t remember how to live without him in my world.”
“Oh God, sweetie. I see that. I know that. It isn’t right. I wish I
could take away all your pain.” She grabbed a kitchen towel and
dotted my glistening cheeks. “Chin up, cupcake,” she said gingerly.
“I can’t change the past, but I am here for you as you grope your
way through this.”
“Groping is exactly all I know how to do right now.”
As we sat down to eat, I told Constance, “My parents want me
to fly home, but I don’t think that’s a good idea. It will just confuse
them more. They still wonder whatever happened to me and Joe.” I
went on to explain how I had withheld my breakup with Joe for so
many months from my parents and my sisters, not even seeing the
irony of the fact. “I was just too embarrassed to tell anyone the
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engagement was off. I felt like a failure. But lying just complicated
everything more. We had to be discreet at work, so I have, by virtue
of omission, cut myself off from the very people who could best help
me through this.” I saw a strained look in her eyes, and corrected my
statement. “With the exception of you. How thankful I am to have
someone as strong as you to help guide me through this. Yet, I don’t
want to burden you. You have your own life. You don’t need me
wailing on your shoulder every night of the week.”
Constance assured me I wasn’t draining her, but she didn’t
know my culmination of issues brewing. Deserted by my college
boyfriend. Losing a baby. A broken engagement. The man of my
dreams dying. I had been through a string of disasters that was
setting my life on a tilt. As capable as she was, I didn’t believe even
Constance had the skills to help me cope with my many losses.
Losing Gregory had certainly been the most intense, but on some
days it felt like my tears were magnified by the collective hardships,
and I feared the cascade of hurt would topple my sanity.
A few nights later, I listened to a message she had left for me.
“You can still back out. I would totally understand.” Constance
may have intended to sound lighthearted, but I could hear the
concern dripping from her words as she was giving me the option to
miss the opening night of her production.
Since Gregory’s death, she had been the only person I could
confide in, and she had been completely empathetic and mothering,
a trait I would never have expected to come out in her. But even as
much as I trusted her, I withheld the most intimate things and
internalized more and more. The pregnancy scare was too personal,
too raw to reveal. I desperately wished the test had been positive
and a child, a legacy of Gregory’s life, was going to be born. The
greatest tragedy was losing Gregory and all the characteristics that
were so uniquely him.
I hit the delete button after hearing her voicemail and slunk
downstairs to search my closet. My indigo gown still hung in the dry
cleaning bag. I lifted the transparent plastic and caressed the dark
blue velvet. It was a stunning gown, but putting it on would just be
draping myself in sorrowful memories.
I wondered how I was going to get through the night knowing I
would have been attending with Gregory if life had remained on
course. If it were any other event, I wouldn’t hesitate canceling, but
opening night was going to be important for Constance. While she
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would have understood my absence, it was crucial I be there in
reciprocation for her being by my side through this horrible ordeal.
It was a paradox of emotions.
I grabbed the phone and hit last-call redial. “I am coming
tonight. But not without your help. I’m on my way up.”
Within an hour, we found the perfect dress for me to wear to
her opening. I had lost about ten pounds, and everything hung
unflatteringly, so she dipped into some old costumes she had in an
extra closet. The dress we chose was a regal purple with a seductive
sheer back and a wide, sheer ruffle along the hemline. I felt grand
and confident.
Constance stepped back and let out a cat whistle. “Lady, you
are going to be turning heads tonight.” Before the hurt could even
register, she quickly apologized for her comment. “Oh God, Alicia. I
am so sorry. I wasn’t thinking. I know that’s the furthest thing from
your mind.”
“It’s okay. I know circumstances aren’t normal, and we’ll both
forget sometimes. There’s going to be lapses back to our old ways.
Do you know the other day I actually said to Jill, ‘I nearly died when
I heard the new deadline,’? I knew immediately it was a poor choice
of words.”
Constance seemed relieved even I had said things out of context
for this new experience of living with the ghost of a phenomenal life.
Constance needed to leave for the theater, leaving me with too
many idle hours to wait. The days since Gregory died had
progressed with a numbing slowness, so I dreaded the hours leading
up to the performance. It was far too early to shower and get myself
ready for the night. I didn’t have the motivation to make a trip to the
health club. Reading seemed a logical choice to pass the hours, so I
chopped some fresh tomatoes and mozzarella cheese and settled in
my reading area where the books Gregory had replaced for me at
Christmas surrounded and comforted me.
I thought back to the weekend after we built the library. It had
rained hard that morning. We had been to the health club early and
had an intense, draining workout. Gregory had brought a change of
clothes for the day, so we had come back to the cottage to shower
afterward. We were still slightly nervous around each other, and the
flirtation was becoming more purposeful. I showered first and
slipped into a slinky chemise to finish my hair and makeup. I moved
to the bedroom as Gregory took my place in the bathroom. Just
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knowing he was naked on the other side of the doorway distracted
me from the simplest task of putting on mascara. Gregory sang
“Angel Eyes” at the top of his lungs while taking his turn in the
shower. I was getting used to his solid baritone voice even though he
didn’t sing well. When Gregory opened the door a touch to let the
steam dissipate, I could see him through the crevice. The plush towel
secured at his waist, his wet hair shimmering, his smooth, taut body,
skin slick with moisture. I snuck into the bathroom with the excuse I
needed something from the medicine cabinet hoping, and not being
disappointed, that he would grab me. I let my body collapse into his
and felt the moist warmth of his towel against my hips. His kisses
were unusually torrid and deep. But he kept his arms wrapped
around me and didn’t let his hands stray.
I could feel him getting hard through the fabric of the towel,
and allowed my hips to press forward into his erection. In a swift
move, he lifted me up onto the countertop without breaking our kiss.
I wrapped my legs around him, my chemise inching up to an Xrated
height. Gregory leaned forward on one arm as I arched my
back, and he dropped his lips to my neck. He kissed lower and
lower, but just as he reached the top of my breast, he reversed his
direction, while I desired more.
Gregory’s kisses progressed higher up on my neck, until he
reached my earlobe and whispered seductively, “I think we’re going
to be ready very soon. And when we are, it’s going to be mindblowing.”
But then he gently lifted me back down to the floor and pecked
me softly on the lips.
“Ready for lunch?” he said next.
“Oh no you don’t,” I said with frustration. “You can’t be
serious.”
“I am very serious,” he replied. “How many relationships have
you been in that got to that stage way too prematurely and then you
regret it? There’s no harm in waiting a while, especially with
something this powerful.” Then he winked at me, and I could tell he
was entirely serious about his intent to wait until the time was right.
He seemed to enjoy my frustration, but in a flirtatious and
seductive way. By the time we were preparing lunch in my small
kitchen, I realized he was right and felt so grateful he didn’t just
want to jump into bed, even though I could have been convinced
otherwise in a heartbeat.
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The wound welled up again. Thoughts of our intimacy were the
hardest. I had lost all sense of security I had felt being with him.
My heart had told me everything was right when I was with
him, so not being near him left a gaping hole of apprehension in my
heart. I let myself be lured toward the bottles waiting in the kitchen.
I needed courage to face the night that I would have shared with
Gregory, making more memories. It was still hours until the show,
so I knew I would have to pace myself with my liquor. Waiting until
after I showered would only prolong feeling the relief. I stared at the
refrigerator door as if willing it to give me a sign not to drink.
But then I glimpsed the second theatre ticket pegged to the
board under the cupboard. I had to pause and lean on the counter to
fortify myself against thoughts of how differently I would feel at that
moment if Gregory were still alive and I was waiting for his arrival
to attend the performance. Sadness lurched inside me. I snatched the
bottle of vodka out of the freezer; there was no way I could get
through the night sober.
Gregory had taught me how to make a perfect martini, but I
was too impatient and poured the vodka into the glass. I sipped it,
but it was bitterly potent. Unable to drink it slowly, I gulped it
down. I followed it with another, but somehow found the discipline
to not pour a third. Settling back into my chair in the reading nook, I
tried to pick up where I had left off in my book, but it was useless. I
went downstairs for a doze to refresh myself for the long night
ahead, but I couldn’t quiet my mind to allow any rest.
I slipped upstairs for another shot of vodka. It hit me like a
brick, but gave me the release I needed to get some sleep. I slept
longer than I planned, but still woke intoxicated. Giggling as I
swayed in front of the mirror, I tried to create an elegant twist with
my hair, but only succeeded getting a few miscellaneous strands
pinned up loosely.
As I finished my lips, I heard a faint knock on the door upstairs.
Constance had arranged for Bob to drive me to the theater. I
stumbled up the stairs, nearly ripping the delicate ruffle on my
dress. I swatted at the front door’s handle with vodka-induced loss
of coordination. I finally caught the knob and flung the door wide
open, startling us both. Bob gave me a long look that felt more
leering than admiring. After an awkward hug, and gathering my
purse and jacket, Bob gently escorted me out to the car.
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“I guess having the top down is out of the question?” he asked
as he gestured to my swept-up hair. During the drive, he made small
talk, but I felt the question he wanted to pose hang in the air.
“It’s fine if you want to ask me about it,” I offered.
“Wow.” He released the words and the stifling concept in the
same breath. “I’m not sure what I want to ask. More than anything, I
guess I want to know how you are dealing with it?”
How was I dealing with it? I could have revealed my pain and
sorrow about having absolutely no place in Gregory’s life. No
position or title, not his girlfriend or wife, not a relative.
What right to grieve did I have? There had been no mention of me in
his obituary or the services that relayed all the facts of importance and
relevance in life. I wasn’t the type to step forward and lay claim to having
been involved with him. I was just a memory. And if the man who had those
memories was dead, was I even that?
But instead, I simply said, “I deal with it differently each and
every day. Some days I deal with it well. Other days, not so much.
Mostly it’s just a hurt that defies description,” I told him.
“Well if there’s anything I can ever do for you, just let me
know,” he responded.
I had been hearing that phrase often, but it had empty value for
me. I’d heard it from Jill, my parents, and my sisters. I didn’t know
what any of them could do for me, at least nothing tangible. They
could buy no gift, make no gesture that would make it all go away.
I could hear my mom saying, “Time heals all wounds,” but it was
a trite saying. How much time? And what do you do to cope during that
undefined period of time?
As we headed toward the Golden Gate Bridge in Bob’s sleek
Jaguar, the sun was dropping low, but we were going to miss the
sunset. I remembered many conversations with Gregory about our
sunsets and sunrises. My heart ached.
Gregory preferred the sunrise, the promise of the new day. The
promise of a new day he would never again experience. I forced
back tears. I asked Bob to turn up the volume on the CD. When
traffic slowed as we neared the tunnel, I gave him permission to
drop the convertible top while I pulled the clips and pins from my
hair and let it fall loose. But when we picked up speed over the
bridge, wind whipped hair across my face that stuck to my lipstick,
but it was the most carefree moment I had given myself in weeks.
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We arrived in ample time before the ballet, so I had time to fix
my hair and makeup before throngs of ticket holders gathered in the
lobby. Bob offered to buy me a pre-show cocktail, and I ordered a
martini. The cocktail was strong and worked its magic quickly. I
immediately felt much more relaxed and at ease. The embarrassment
of having to be escorted by my friend’s date subsided. The pain of
knowing I should have been there with Gregory didn’t subside. I
pictured how elegant he would have looked in his tux. My
heartstrings tugged as I relived the night we met and his
interpretation of formal attire. I winced, finished my drink swiftly,
and ordered a second.
The ballet was a huge success with multiple encores. When the
curtain fell for the final time, we wove our way against the exiting
audience, toward the backstage to find and congratulate Constance. I
was bombed from the very moment we took our seats, and the
effects of the liquor lingered through the three hours of the show, so
I had to lean on Bob to steady my balance as we made our way
against the crowd. I had more than overdone it on the booze, but
that didn’t stop me from snatching a champagne flute from the tray
being circulated backstage.
“Conschance,” I slurred loudly when we spotted her, drawing a
few disapproving looks our direction. “It was magnifischent. You
outdid yourself. The costumes shimply made the show!” I
emphasized my point with my hands, forgetting the champagne
glass I held, and sloshed it onto her dress. Not even the horrified
look on her face was enough to sober me up.
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Page 183
hapter
The next day, Constance knocked on my door late in the
afternoon. She may have tried to come down earlier, but I was
debilitated by a hangover that rendered me useless. I nearly had to
crawl to answer the door because I was so unsteady and nauseous. I
could tell she was startled by my sunken eyes, snarled hair, and
smeared mascara I had been too drunk to care about removing.
I was in disbelief when she apologized for getting angry at me. I
interjected I was the one who needed to apologize, but she stood
firm on her viewpoint and said, “Alicia, I have no concept of the
intensity of what you’re going through. I need to be more patient
and forgiving. This is the time in your life where you need people to
be supportive of you, not judgmental. If alcohol gives you the escape
you need, far be it from me to criticize your choice.”
Then she added a very prophetic comment.
“Just don’t let it become your crutch.”
Over the next few months, as the multitude of spring colors
bloomed under crystal blue skies, I did nothing but buy wine, drink,
and cry. When wine failed to provide the desired state of numbness,
I switched to vodka, emptying bottle after bottle, then filling the
cupboards with more. Music filled the cottage every waking minute,
but every melody seemed haunting, every lyric pierced and
accentuated my loss, but I was addicted to its torment. Music gave
me solace as I searched my soul for answers to the reason for
Gregory’s death, wondering why not me, instead of him. He had
talent. He had energy. He had potential.
I was just a lost individual trying to maneuver my way through
life without too much effort. I didn’t excel at any one thing. I
dabbled, and created the only identity I knew through external
means like work and relationships. I had no identity of my own,
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unlike Gregory, who had a supreme realization of his purpose and
the contribution he could make to the world.
Many weekends I was left wandering. Constance invited me to
spend time with her and Bob, Jill made offers to join her in the East
Bay, but I just wanted to be alone with my emotions most of the
time. I filled my days with mental replays of my life with Gregory. I
moped. I wept. I pitied myself. Gregory and I had no pictures of us
together, so there were no photos to reminisce with, but luckily the
images of him were still perfectly clear in my mind. The holiday
party, the first date at City Lights, the passionate nights in front of
the fire, running errands or working out, arranging our busy lives to
sneak in whatever minutes we could at work. I had let my whole life
revolve around his, and I wouldn’t have changed a thing. What I
missed most was waking up next to him. I didn’t need a sunrise
when I awoke next to Gregory. Being in his arms was all the promise
of a new day I needed.
But I needed something different now. He was dead, and I
needed, desperately needed, more than just memories. I needed to
feel connected to him again. I missed our connection as much as I
missed his presence. I couldn’t visit his gravesite whenever I needed
to, couldn’t look into those deep, inviting eyes in a photo. Our
connection was abruptly halted the day his life ended. I heard stories
about people who received messages or signs from their deceased
loved ones, and even though I had long been a skeptic, I kept a
watchful eye for signs that never transpired.
My grief was intense, but I hadn’t called in sick to work since
the days I had missed after Gregory’s death; even though I was as
worthless as if I had called in sick. Lack of focus, bouts of tears, and
deep disinterest in anything that didn’t allow me to drink tainted my
work. Daylight was growing longer. A renewed energy in the air
with spring in full force gave me the opposite effect of feeling more
depressed and lethargic. I crossed off days on the calendar, not
marking the countdown to something to come, but tallying the days
of grief that passed indistinctly from the next.
One day that started as indistinctly as any other became another
day to haunt me forever forward. Hung over from another night of
bingeing on vodka, I ambled out to the deck, willing the fresh air to
cure my pounding headache, hands cupped around my coffee mug,
the heat it generated welcome despite the glare of the sun. I laid my
head back and felt its warmth liquefy in my veins. With my face
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fully engulfed in its blaze, I opened and closed my eyes to enjoy the
patterns I could create on my inner eyelids: slithering lines, colored
spots, meandering ribbons that ultimately fused together into a
kaleidoscope mimicking my swirling thoughts.
The slope of the chair allowed a natural recline, but its hard
slats were too rigid. It had been two months without Gregory, and
while I rarely left the house, I had been venturing out more and
more in the mornings to drink my coffee, and the Adirondack chairs
were my new perch. The house felt confining, a prison of grief and
sadness. The fresh air, the sunlight, the sound of the wind rushing
through the redwoods was a more soothing, calming respite from
my tears. I let my eyes flicker to initiate new visuals, but a dark
shadow interrupted the creation of new patterns.
“This looks relaxing,” said a recognizable voice. Bob.
“It certainly is. I have the best sunroom there is,” I said. I
needed to shield my eyes to look up at him, but could only make out
the outline of his oblong head.
“Mind if I join you?” he asked. It was more of a statement than
a question, as he had already pulled the second chair to a new angle
parallel to mine. I thought he would sit in the chair, but instead he
sat on its armrest, facing me.
“There’s more if you want, and it’s probably still hot,” I said as I
motioned to my mug.
“Thanks, but I am not really a coffee drinker. Caffeine makes
me too wired.”
“Sorry then. I don’t have much else to offer you. I’m not even
sure I have any bottled water.” Other than vodka, my beverage
choices were limited for any guests.
“No worries. Just saw you out here and wanted to see if you
needed some company,” he replied as he stared at me a little too
intently.
“Where’s Constance?” I asked.
“Off to the gym. Some new class she’s into, cardio, weights,
PowerFlex, or whatever new fad they have going on now,” he said
somewhat sarcastically. It tinged of the tone I used to hear Joe use.
I could barely recall the last time I had been to the club. Gregory
and I had worked out together the weekend before he died. The
thought of his sturdy and strong body made me crave him again.
“Gregory and I used to really enjoy our workouts together. I’ll
bet Constance would appreciate you going with her,” I suggested.
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“Not really my cup of coffee either,” he replied.
I realized other than his business, I knew very little about Bob.
“So, how has business been?”
“It’s been better. Last year’s rain really affected the crops, and
the vintages just aren’t producing quality wines. The recession was
luckily short and sweet, so we haven’t seen too much economic
downturn as we speculated earlier this year.”
“Right.” I hadn’t thought about business or economics for
months, and it felt good to exercise my mind a little bit.
“You know, I always have been a little intrigued about your
company. How successful you’ve been. I don’t know anyone as
established and self-made as you. I’m impressed.”
“It’s called absolute and total drive. I studied the market,
determined where the best margins were, and identified how I might
best and most quickly be able to make a profit. Then fortune fell into
my hands when I convinced a retiring couple who had acres and
acres of fertile fields with no earthly clue was a gold mine for grapes,
to sell out for about one tenth of what the property was worth,” he
snorted arrogantly. “Lucky for me they didn’t do their homework.”
Then he shrugged. “So I planted the seeds, and while I waited for
them to sprout, I created a solid marketing plan to focus on the
corporate event niche. After that, self-glorification just came
naturally to me.”
“Hmmm. I guess I expected something a little more romantic.
An obsession or passion for good wine that drove you to success,” I
replied as I sipped my coffee and found it distastefully lukewarm.
Needing a warm-up for my coffee, I attempted to rise from the
chair. My robe belt slipped loose, and the right side of my robe slid
off my shoulder, exposing my breast. I had the coffee cup in my left
hand, and as I awkwardly grabbed at my sleeve, coffee splashed
across my chest just before the mug leapt to the ground. Bob jumped
up in a failed attempt to catch the cup before it fell with a thud onto
the boards of the deck.
“Oh shit, look at my robe.” The coffee stain polluted the buttery
white satin. “This is never going to come out,” I cried as I flew into
the house to the kitchen sink and slammed on the faucet. As the cold
water poured down, I stripped the robe off and thrust it into its
pulsing cascade. The coffee bled off the fabric and the beautiful
garment appeared it might be salvageable.
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I caught Bob out of the corner of my eye, standing in the open
doorway. Realizing he saw me, completely naked, frantically
scrubbing at the robe, I pulled the cold, heavy folds to my chest and
yelled, “What are you doing?” But the cold, wet material against my
skin sent an unexpected surge of excitement through me. My nipples
responded to the chill and became erect.
Bob approached me slowly, and just as he reached out to take
the robe from me, I let it drop to the floor. “You are incredibly sexy,”
he said as his eyes dropped to survey my body. “Incredibly sexy.”
I went limp as he wrapped his arms around me and put his lips
to my neck. The water was still gushing, and I felt small specks
splash onto my naked hip. Bob smoothly reached out and shut off
the valve without his lips leaving my neck. I felt vulnerable in his
arms, but craved it. The urge for a man’s touch overpowered me. A
need more overwhelming than the knowledge it was wrong to allow
his hands, his lips, his body to be pressed against mine.
Bob pulled back a few inches, and his eyes traveled down my
body once again. This time, he leaned forward and kissed me deep
on the lips. I closed my eyes, trying to picture and feel Gregory
instead of Bob. But it was different. Unfamiliar. I desired the
sensation, but not him. I clenched my eyes tighter, desperate to
imagine Gregory. Too suddenly, Bob was groping my breasts and
reached down between my legs.
“No, Bob. Just slower, please.”
“Okay. Okay.”
He crushed my mouth with kisses, deep and frantic. He took
my hand and led me downstairs. As we approached the bed, he
spun me around and toppled onto me. The momentary arousal in
the kitchen was gone as reality pounded with full force I was with
Constance’s boyfriend.
“Stop. You have to stop. This isn’t right,” I begged. I had to
push him off of me. “For God’s sake, this is wrong. Constance would
be mortified. I’m mortified.”
“But it was always you I was attracted to.”
“That doesn’t matter. She’s my friend.” How had I allowed this to
happen? “You need to go.”
I pushed him away and dashed into the closet to grab
something to cover myself just as I heard Constance call from
upstairs.
“Alicia? Are you here?”
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I mumbled, “Oh shit,” as I scrambled to get something on my
naked body.
Before I could reply, Bob yelled up, “We’re just down here.
Alicia needed some help.”
Constance bounded down the stairs just as I emerged from the
closet. Her eyes registered a quick assessment of the situation. Bob
was standing at the bedside, and my eyes didn’t conceal my guilt.
“What’s going on?” Constance’s voice broke on the last word.
“Nothing, sweetheart,” Bob said unconvincingly.
Constance flashed me a look of hatred. “Something is going on,
it appears,” she said. A near eternity seemed to pass.
Bob responded first. “Nothing is going on. Nothing at all. Alicia
needed some help with a stuck faucet. You know her. She’s got only
one man in her heart, and it isn’t me.” He shot me a glance that said
it was a truth that prevented us from going further.
“He’s right, Constance. It’s going to be a long time before I can
even think about another man.” Not to say I hadn’t just tried.
I agonized the entire day about what might have happened
with Bob, grateful I had the presence of mind to stop him. I
shuddered knowing if Constance hadn’t called out, or worse, if she
had come downstairs mere minutes sooner, it would have been
catastrophic. I couldn’t comprehend what had provoked me to allow
Bob to touch me, to kiss me. My behavior baffled and sickened me.
Was I that desperate for affection? Bob had flirted with me since the
first day we met, but it had never flattered me, and it smacked of
disrespect toward Constance. I didn’t know whether to call her or go
up to her house to explain, but part of me thought I would just
solidify her suspicions. Not that her suspicions were off target, but I
wasn’t willing to admit my guilt.
The following week at work, I was uncharacteristically
distracted. Richard caught multiple mistakes in my work. One
unfortunate mistake he identified only after he had delivered the
presentation to the president and CEO. He was furious. It was the
first time I had ever seen him angry, but it was also the first time I
had ever screwed up a critical report. I assured him I would review
my results more carefully and it would never happen again.
But it did continue to happen. My interest in work was
nonexistent and my output getting sloppier and sloppier.
When the Fourth of July finally arrived, I was ready for the
break from work. I had continued to make mistakes and missed a
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major deadline, which aggravated Richard further, so I was ready to
be away from his scrutiny for longer than just the two days the
weekends offered.
Instead of enjoying the time away from work without
obligation and nothing but freedom to do as I pleased, no schedule,
no commitments, I succumbed to my grief once again.
The holiday started pleasantly enough. Constance had even
politely called to check in on me. I didn’t find it peculiar she didn’t
include me in her plans for the long holiday weekend. I assumed she
would be with Bob. Even though we had explained our way out of
the morning she caught us in my bedroom, she was too smart to
know it was as innocent as we portrayed it to be. I cringed later that
guilty day when I had gone upstairs and saw my soaked, rumpled
robe still lying on the kitchen floor. Constance had certainly seen it
when she had passed through the upper level.
I was fairly certain Bob hadn’t confessed either, or I wouldn’t
see him still visiting and spending the night on occasion. Constance’s
house was dark more nights than not, so I figured she stayed with
him more often to minimize his exposure to me. It had been a few
weeks since our unfortunate encounter, and there had been no
impromptu dinners, no wine on the deck; I had irretrievably altered
my friendship with her.
Jill had invited me over to the East Bay for her annual Fourth of
July gathering. I had assured her I would come, but the energy it
required was far greater than I had when the morning came. I knew
etiquette required I at least make a phone call to her to let her know I
wasn’t coming, but that, too, was more than I could muster. I had at
least showered and made coffee, a feat much greater than most
weekend days. Yet, I was exhausted shortly before noon and
climbed back into the bed. It was a brilliant day with the sun
barreling through the expanse of upper windows, and I couldn’t fall
asleep. I was all too aware it was another day of promise for healing
I wasn’t capitalizing on. I fought tears and memories, unsuccessfully
forcing myself back to sleep.
“I just need a drink,” I said to the empty room. Liquor did
become my crutch when sorrow proved too much to battle. Wine
didn’t seem appealing once I was up in the hot and stifling upper
level. I opened the freezer door, its freezing mist welcome against
my skin. I snatched a new bottle of vodka from the rack. Its fine layer
of crystals disintegrated under the warmth of my fingers. I
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mechanically mixed a stiff martini and gulped it down. The warmth
in my core propelled me to make a second drink. I drank it just as
quickly, then another, without taking a step away from the counter.
Light-headed from my gluttony of drinks, I stuck the vodka
under my arm, scooped up my glass and the olive jar to take down
to my bedside. I had trouble making my way down the stairs and
giggled at my clumsiness. I fumbled with the sheets as I tumbled
into the bed, mumbling for the evening to come quickly so I could
watch the sunset. Gregory knew how much I loved the sunset, the
rich night sky. Our one difference. We never experienced a sunrise
together. I vowed to rise early the next day and experience a sunrise
for Gregory as I drifted off into my beloved sleep.
The pounding of fireworks woke me well into the night. I
hadn’t eaten all day, so my gut was growling intently. I woke long
enough to venture upstairs, swaying and wobbly, to make some
toast. I ate it voraciously, thrusting two more slices into the toaster
immediately after devouring the first two.
My weekend consisted of moving from the bed to the kitchen. I
hadn’t slept so many hours in my entire life. I heard the phone
ringing in the distance. I confused it as a dream and made a motion
to lift the receiver, but I was still in bed. The room was spinning.
Dazed, I heard a knock on the door and Constance’s voice
reverberating from the ceiling of the cottage. Suddenly, the lights
above flashed on as I shielded my eyes from the light.
“Alicia?” Constance was yelling into the cottage. I tried to
answer, but my voice failed me.
“Alicia?” she called again fearfully.
“I’m all right here,” I managed to utter only those garbled
words.
I heard rapid footsteps descending into the bedroom.
“I haven’t seen a light on down here for three days.” She
grabbed one of the empty vodka bottles from the pile.
“I’m drunk. I have been drinking. And sleeping. And drinking.
And sleeping.” My eyes were hurting from the light above. I heard
water running in the distance, and then suddenly her strong arms
lifted me from the bed. I was already naked, so it was easy for her to
get me into the shower. The water was piercing cold, and I shrieked.
I resented the pity I saw in her eyes. After a short burst of the cold
water, she brought me three aspirin and a pitcher of ice-cold water.
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“Take these,” she said sympathetically. She got into bed with
me, and as she stroked my hair as I slipped back into a
semiconscious state, I heard her whisper, “I had no idea it had gotten
this bad.”
Page 192
Page 193
hapter
Over the next few weeks, Constance began dropping
unsubtle hints about me seeing a therapist. She brought me a book
on overcoming grief. I pretended to appreciate her concern and
compassion, but it angered me. How could she not see I was entirely
lost without Gregory in my life? His death was a turning point. Life
held no more promise for me.
Vodka became my silent addiction. Concealing my
consumption was simple because it didn’t emanate from my pores
after a binge like wine or other liquors would. Cocktails after work
migrated into a waking need for a refresher to get through the day. I
didn’t waste any energy on mixers or diluters, opting for vodka
straight up. I had convinced myself I needed a shot in the morning
before gathering my professional gear and making the journey to the
office; vodka was my armor for getting through each day. I wasn’t
smart enough not to drink before work, but when I was tempted to
take a bottle in my briefcase one day, some semblance of willpower
took over.
The days blurred together. A haze of work hours separated me
from my alcohol. I was what any psychologist would deem a
“functional” alcoholic. But in my case, the phrase really wouldn’t
have applied. I wasn’t functional in any sense. I was withdrawn. I
hid my secret indulgences from other people and denied the reality
of it all to myself. I ceased friendships, whether purposely or
destructively, as I had done with Constance. I had a close call when
Cyndi cast a wary eye at me when I slurred my words in an early
morning meeting. It was the residual hangover from the previous
night’s overindulgence followed by my confidence boosting shot I
threw down before I grabbed my briefcase and started my commute.
I was a contradictory sight, clad in my business attire, my briefcase
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slung over my shoulder, where my determination and drive to make
it through the day came from a frosted bottle in my freezer.
I had spent so many years trying to define who I was, and the
closest I had ever been to knowing my true self was while I was with
Gregory. I ambled through each day, purposeless. I was losing what
little support I had early in my grief. The expectation, even from
Constance, was that I should get on with my life. The problem was I
didn’t know what that life was supposed to look like. I had found
perfection with Gregory, the life I always imagined for myself. I
didn’t want anything but who I was when I was with him. Losing
him had made me lose my sense of self.
A sense of self that was utterly destroyed when the only
remaining vein of myself was severed. My job. The day Richard
called me into his office, I just expected another dialogue about my
poor performance. He would point out all the errors, and I would
assure him I would work on it. It had become our new role-play.
Instead I heard only the critical words, “reassignment to
Colorado…probation period…potential to lose your job…imperative
to turn it around.”
“You’re demoting me to fulfillment?” I nearly choked on the
words, incredulous my career had culminated in this conclusion.
“You mean the mail center?” I could think of no less glamorous role.
“It’s the best I can do to preserve any position for you in the
company.” Richard seemed apologetic but also embarrassed for me.
Barely a year earlier, I’d been at the cusp of my career, immersed in a
new love that had since been ripped from my grasp. I thought my
world couldn’t get any bleaker, but a demotion meant another pillar
of my life was coming crashing down. I wasn’t sure I had it in me. I
packed my office without shedding a tear, stunned into emotional
paralysis.
The day I moved out of Paradise House, I was completely bitter.
When I glanced at the boxes stacked near the doorway, ready for
their exodus, I remembered vividly the weekend I moved in:
Constance excitedly awaiting my arrival, welcoming me without
reservation, whisking me off to the bar the second day, and the easy
conversations, her unbridled generosity. I didn’t even long for that
type of friendship anymore.
Constance halfheartedly offered to throw me a going-away
party, but I refused with the argument my transfer wasn’t exactly an
event to celebrate. We had dinner a few nights before my departure
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date, but things had changed so dramatically between us. Our
conversation was strained and less animated than normal. It was the
first time we had tried to recapture our relationship since the
morning she caught Bob and me in the bedroom, nearly ruining our
friendship for eternity.
I asked how things were with him, and she dismissed it lightly,
but I saw the pain in her eyes.
“I figure for his age and his history, Bob isn’t really into
anything committed. I don’t think he’s ever been with any woman
longer than a few months. Never married, never engaged, his MO
just seems to be to have fun while he can and then move on.” She
shrugged. “When you have dinner with a guy, and his eyes travel to
every blonde who walks past, hell, even any brunette who saunters
by, it doesn’t take a genius to figure out a future isn’t in the cards,”
she said, trying to portray indifference.
“I’m sorry. I really hoped it would work out for you. I know
how much you care about him,” I told her.
“Sure you do,” she said. The cynicism in her voice didn’t escape
my notice.
I never understood why she hadn’t found genuine love. There
were so many things I admired about Constance. She always had a
grounded perspective and truly relished every moment of life. I had
become tethered to my sorrow and knew with confidence, under the
same circumstances, she would be coping better than I. There was no
question in my mind she would have much more resilience.
Across the dinner plates and cocktail glasses, Constance talked
about her latest project, and her obvious elation and satisfaction with
her profession was now a foreign state of mind for me. I doubted I
would ever feel that same sense of pride and accomplishment again,
just as certainly as I knew I would never feel the depth of love I had
with Gregory again. I ordered another drink and gulped it down as
Constance gave me a disapproving look.
“I worry about you,” she said as I plopped the empty glass
down and scanned the room for the waitress to request another.
“Why’s that?” I asked, pretending I didn’t know.
“The drinking, Alicia,” she said with a measure of distaste. “I
thought, by now, you would have conquered the excessive
drinking.”
“It’s just an escape right now.”
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I was getting tired of justifying my behaviors. No one
understood what I was going through, and the judgments were
agitating.
“That’s the problem right there,” she said. “Alcohol should
never be an escape. It’s something you use to relax, to take the edge
of the day or to loosen up a bit, not to completely alter yourself.”
“For someone who drinks more than me, you understand the
irony of this, don’t you?” I knew her drinking didn’t even compare
to mine, but I needed to deflect her accusations.
“Alicia, don’t.” She shook her head. “I’m not trying to lecture
you. I just don’t like the path I see you headed down. You’ve been
through a traumatic event. It’s only natural you’ll act out of
character, but it’s time to retrench your vices and focus on what’s
next for you. And I don’t mean trying to get back to normal,
whatever that is. Nothing will be the same as it was, but you have to
realize there can be a new normal. You can be happy again, just in a
different way.” She continued, “What happened at work should be a
big wake-up call for you. What if they just would have fired you?
Where would you be then? They’re extending you a very gracious
chance to turn it all around, and I’d hate to see you blow it again.”
I knew she was right, but it was beyond me to acknowledge the
accuracy of her advice.
The counseling session at dinner with Constance was only one
of many tough last experiences in California. The following night I
had to tackle packing the library. With each book I packed away, the
memories singed my heart a darker shade of grief. Gregory had
inscribed every book he had given me for Christmas, and even
though I had reread them multiple times, seeing his solid script,
imagining him crafting each phrase and penning it especially for me
in each book, brought the tears of gratitude and loss to the surface
again.
On my final day in the cottage, I opened the front door to find a
wrapped package lying at the door. I tentatively opened the gift.
Tucked in the neckline of her purple sweater was a small card.
Constance had written:
I will always think of you wearing this and the beauty it brought out
in you.
The box dropped to the floor when I pulled the sweater out and
buried my face in the soft fabric. It smelled like fresh rain. Constance
had let me keep the sweater for a few weeks after I had changed into
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it that rainy night. I had worn it on my next date with Gregory. He
was very complimentary about how I looked.
But what was most memorable about that date was when the
waiter returned and asked, “Would you and your wife like to begin
with cocktails this evening?” Most men would have corrected him,
but Gregory just played along.
“Yes, I think my wife and I would prefer a couple of martinis
before dinner this evening,” he said with his characteristic
playfulness.
As I sat across from him, picturing him as my husband felt so
natural. For the reminder of the night, he called me “Mrs. Vincent.”
It was a wonderful pretense. By the time we left the restaurant, I was
so aroused by the charade of being husband and wife I couldn’t keep
my hands off of Gregory. As he reached around me to unlock the
door in the parking lot, he leaned into me with all his weight, kissing
me deeply. Pressed against the cold metal of the car door opposing
the heat from his body, passion bubbled up deep within me. He
snaked his hands up under the purple sweater, lightly cupping my
breasts.
Lost in my thoughts, I didn’t see the moving van sent by the
company was idling in the driveway. I had to desert my memories
and get back to the business of leaving a life that had gone from the
highest heights to the lowest low. There was nothing left of me in the
cottage. Nothing but the painful, sorrowful memories of the love that
evolved there. Everything I owned was packed in the boxes stacked
by the entryway.
My car had been shipped out the day before. Constance had
told me just to leave the door unlocked and the keys on the table. It
felt like a different lifetime I had found my place, my retreat, my
haven. Constance and I giggling in the closet. Gregory helping me
create my library nook. Making passionate love in the expansive bed.
The hurt was penetrating.
After the boxes were transferred to the moving truck, the
shuttle van pulled in, exchanging places with the moving van in the
narrow drive. I waved to the driver and flung the keys onto the
table, the anger stinging inside. I closed the door on what had been
the best and the worst days of my entire life.
My parents met me at the airport in Denver. Their obvious
worry made them look all of their years. I couldn’t contain my tears
when I saw them. I cried more for what I had left behind than what I
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was going toward. As we made the long drive back from the airport
toward my childhood home, I stared out the backseat window in
disbelief. Even though I had missed the clear blue skies of Colorado,
I hadn’t contemplated I would find myself returning on that day, in
that way. Even in January, the sun was visible behind the patterns of
misty clouds. I made myself carsick as I focused my gaze on the
asphalt whizzing alongside the tires instead of toward the pastoral
fields and hills lacing the east side of the highway or the majestic
vista of the mountains that bordered the west.
“We fixed the basement apartment up for you, sweetie. A fresh
coat of paint and some bright curtains. It’ll be like a new place for
you.”
“I’m only going to be here a few days, Mom. The moving truck
will be here by Friday.”
“Well, you just never know, honey,” she sang out with rare
optimism. I was offended she thought I would choose to stay at
home rather than go back to my independence.
“I’m certainly not going to do the commute thing again. The
apartment complex looks just fine. The company relocation agency
said they’ve never had a problem putting employees there.”
“Oh, we know. We just thought maybe you might not stay with
the magazine. I am sure that Dr. Craig would just love to have you
back at the office.”
“Seriously, Mom? Do you think that I would ever go back and
work for him? I mean, I’ve got a real career now,” I said nastily.
Or did I? I shuddered to think what the mail center would look
like. My parents ignored my nasty attitude and talked about all the
relatives who were anxious to drop by to see me while I was home.
The few days staying with my parents gave me far too much time to
consider what my new job would be like, how I would adjust, what
new coworkers I would have, and just generally to come to grips
with the phenomenal opportunity that I had ruined for myself. I had
been in the highest level of the organization, performing and
achieving new strides in my career, and now I was devalued and
forced to accept a demeaning job in what was essentially the
warehouse.
Jill had distanced herself from me in my final months. She never
let on if she knew about my drinking. Maybe I had concealed it well
enough. Or maybe I shouldn’t have. The decline in my performance,
coming in late, leaving early, taking long lunches was bad enough,
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but I had missed deadlines that put Richard in a bad position. The
work I did deliver was sloppy and fraught with mistakes. I had been
lucky to not have made a catastrophic error to cost me my job, but
Richard had given me more than enough leeway to turn it around. I
just didn’t care to. Cyndi was positively gleeful on my last day. She
had finally gotten my position after I had so deftly ruined it for
myself. There wasn’t too high of a bar for her to follow after my last
months on the job, so I knew she would have no challenge from me
in impressing Richard.
The day I met the moving van at my new apartment complex
was gray and overcast. I considered it an omen to the new life I was
facing. The apartment was half the size of the cottage, and most of
my boxes went straight to storage. I had carefully packed a box of
the most meaningful books from Gregory and Love Story from
Constance. I found strange solace in its irony.
Other than the absolute necessities, everything else went into
storage, even the painting Constance had made for me. It
represented a life I could no longer relate to, a contented, fulfilled life
rich with love and passion. I barely remembered how it felt to wake
each day full of life and expectation for the day to come. The alarm
clock was once again my enemy, liquor in the freezer was my new
partner, and the boredom was my penance.
When the anniversary of Gregory’s death approached, I was
torn between spending the night in solitude or finding some
significant way to mark the date. It was a certainty a request for the
day off would not be be granted. My new boss, Mr. West, was
dramatically different than Richard and made it clear from the first
day I needed to prove myself.
When I arrived on my first day at the fulfillment center, he was
nowhere to be found. Stranded in the lobby for forty minutes, I
waited, but not so patiently. When I was finally ushered up to Mr.
West’s office, he acted slightly annoyed I was there. Without an
apology for my wait or the confusion, he just rattled off tasks for me
to handle to get myself set up with a computer, phone, and other
necessary office supplies.
He motioned to a desk haphazardly placed in an oversized
supply room and said, “We’re a little tight on space out here. We
take what we can get.” Then he disappeared.
I dropped my briefcase on the desk and looked around my new
space. A buzzing noise filled the room from the grated fluorescent
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light fixture overhead. The desk was marred with scratches and
watermarks. It squatted at an odd angle from the doorway,
providing very little area for the desk chair. I tried to move the
hulking desk, but it was too heavy for me. The chair wobbled when I
took a seat. The upscale, polished offices of San Francisco were
luxuries of a former life. This was my new world. It seemed
poetically perfect to me.
At the end of my first day, Mr. West called me in for a recap of
what I had accomplished during the day. Without preamble he told
me he hadn’t been thrilled to hear I had been chosen for the position.
“I mean, you can understand my concern to learn an
underperformer was being moved into my department. I know there
are extenuating circumstances going on in your personal life, but I
won’t tolerate as much as Richard did.” His eyes narrowed to
convey his indirect threat. “I will monitor your every move. I expect
punctuality. If you are out sick, I expect validation from your doctor.
Every deadline you miss will be tracked. Three strikes and you’re
out.”
My motivation zapped, it was a true challenge to arrive each
day and behave as if any of it mattered to me. But I did the job as it
was explained to me. I skated by with just enough effort to complete
what was expected, but no one accused me of working too hard or
trying to excel in my job.
But on the morning of the anniversary, I was overwhelmed
with sadness. Calling in sick was not an option. I knew Mr. West was
just waiting for me to screw up. The vodka in the freezer tantalized
me, and it was a battle every minute I was getting ready for work to
not pour a shot. I had reduced my reliance on it during the
workdays. I didn’t want to completely destroy my reputation within
the company.
I pulled over a few times on the drive to the office,
hyperventilating. I was preoccupied all day. Every e-mail I
attempted to write took twice as many edits and rewording.
Producing the analysis for the prior month’s mailings resulted in
numerous errors and miscalculations I was lucky to catch before I
sent it out to the distribution list.
When I reached the apartment after the excruciating day, I
hoped for a peaceful night. But I barely had my briefcase down
before the familiar tears flooded forth. I fell in a heap on the floor.
New environments and new experiences used to exhilarate me; now
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they alienated me and frightened me. I was uncomfortable in my
own skin, trapped in the confined space of a bland apartment. Beige
walls, beige carpet, bone-colored blinds. It screamed of unoriginality.
I missed the comfort of the cottage. I missed Constance. I needed her
now more than ever.
I dialed her number tentatively. The phone rang hollowly, and
by the third ring, I knew I would only be speaking to her voice mail.
My distress dropped into my gut, but I left a message anyway.
“Constance, it’s Alicia. I know it’s been a long time, and there’s
no excuse for not calling you before now. But you know I’ve been
through a lot this past year. And well, today is…Today it’s been one
year. I am a complete wreck. I thought it would be easier by now. I
expected the pain would diminish, at least a little bit. But I haven’t
made any progress. In fact, it just feels like time has stood still. There
still isn’t a day that goes by I don’t think about him. And it just hurts.
It hurts so much. And you are the only person. You are really the
only one who knows. You’re the only person who…” But the tone
signaling the end of the message time halted me midsentence.
Constance was compassionate enough to return my call a few
hours later. I had downed three ritual martinis by the time she called
back.
“Hey you, your message broke my heart,” she started. “I’m so
sorry it isn’t getting any easier for you out there. I was truly hopeful
it would be a new start for you.”
“If it’s possible, I think it’s actually worse,” I replied with a
slight slur in my words.
“Have you been drinking?” she asked with a hardened tone.
“Have I been drinking?” I tried to deflect. “Of course I’ve been
drinking. If this isn’t an occasion to drink, I don’t know what it is.”
“Alicia,” she started carefully, “I mean, are you only drinking
tonight, or are you still drinking?”
“It’s not like I’m abstaining or anything.”
“My God, Alicia! I would have thought you would have
learned your lesson. Isn’t drinking what caused you to be out there
alone to cope with this?”
I was more embarrassed than angry, but put the former face on.
I was powerless to change my ways, and her lecturing me didn’t
help my attitude.
“Look, I have it under control. And you, of all people, have no
business counseling me on cutting down on drinking.”
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“There’s a big difference between you and I, Alicia. A big
difference.” And the line went dead in my ear.
Page 203
hapter
Summer approached soon after and brought emotions I hadn’t
felt for far too long. I was eagerly anticipating my ten-year high
school reunion. It was rare for me to have any desire for anything
but booze, and it was a welcome change in my life.
I had received the first notification shortly after the dreadful
anniversary of Gregory’s death, throwing it in the trashcan without a
second thought. Attending a reunion with people from a decade
earlier, when I was a different person, held no appeal. I had been a
rising star in a high-profile publishing company and had made the
proverbial fall from grace.
How could I walk into a reunion with my head held high? I had
succumbed to the lure of liquor, and all my dreams had succumbed
right along with it. Who would be impressed by my status in life:
living alone, scraping by paycheck to paycheck, no defined goals or
aspirations, living in the gloom of grief I allowed to overpower me?
But when the second notice arrived, it stirred a sense it might be
an occasion to lift my spirits. I searched the reunion newsletter for
names of former classmates who might be coming and shelved my
current situation to dwell on memories from a time that was carefree
and uncomplicated.
The newsletter prompted me to locate my yearbooks in my
massive storage shed. Peering into the flat photos of familiar faces
calmed me in a way I didn’t expect. The album could have been from
any high school in any city. The common tale of school days played
out day after day, year after year, each class feeling they were so
much more special than the one before. Pictures of couples at dances,
crowds cheering at football games, plays held on the auditorium
stage, halls and lockers plastered with team mascot signage, and me
smiling with promise in the cheerleading group shots. The images of
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my vibrant and dynamic school days provoked a yearning, a need
for a reconnection to a period that represented freedom from sadness
and sorrow. I decided I needed to attend.
As the weeks passed toward the calendar entry I’d marked in
bold red ink, the reunion was becoming a much-needed focal point
in my life, actually giving me something to look forward to in a life
filled with daily inertia.
When the day finally arrived, I drove to my hometown, as
nervous as I had been for my first date with Gregory. The parallel
surprised and saddened me and started the night out with a tinge I
didn’t want to carry through the night like a torch. I vowed I’d stay
sober, but as I dressed for the evening, the desire for a drink
trounced me. I second-guessed my choice to book a room at the hotel
where the event was held instead of staying at my parents’, because
the minibar was just convenient enough to betray my own vow. The
familiar scorch flowed down my throat as if the tiny vial of vodka
could satisfy a thirst bigger than my own self-worth.
I timed my arrival in the ballroom to be just late enough to not
be among the first to arrive and endure the awkward
reintroductions. As soon as the hotel door closed solidly behind me,
the aromas from the buffet platters simmering over Sterno wafted up
from the banquet rooms. The thumping bass from the DJ resonated
through the open airway of the atrium as I forced myself to not find
parallels to that fateful party of my past. I braced myself on the rails
of the glass-enclosed elevator, feeling slightly queasy from the
movement as I descended to the main lobby.
I walked toward the ballroom rehearsing the story I’d created
about life in California. I considered it an impossibility to reveal
anything about Gregory if I wanted to get through the night without
a meltdown. Talking about my life in California and simply omitting
the chapters about Gregory felt disingenuous, so I embellished the
facts and crafted an alternate existence: a fabulous boyfriend who
worked in the film industry and happened to be on a shoot in the
West Indies, an exciting career that took me to every major
metropolitan city in the country, a fulfilling life that bore absolutely
no resemblance to the reality of the unremarkable life I really lived.
I joined the reunion in full force. The lights were low, with
swaths of color reflected from the mirrored orb overhead. Music
from the DJ pulsated through the crowd. The night was swirling. It
was far too reminiscent of the holiday party for me, a different
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venue, no holiday decorations, but equally festive and energetic. I
headed to the bar to order another jolt of vodka to calm my nerves.
With every glance over my shoulder, I expected to see Gregory in his
tuxedo jacket and jeans. My mind was in an uproar.
I only got a few steps at a time before I was intercepted by
someone new. Even people who didn’t know my name, or couldn’t
get an inconspicuous view of my nametag, still hugged me warmly
and asked about my life. My story line didn’t come easily. The words
felt forced and stilted despite my many rehearsals. I didn’t have the
presence of mind to stop drinking since, with each sip, my story
became more comfortable than the truth. I conveyed my fictional life
to a steady stream of faces. I indulged less time for their stories than
for my own.
The lies filled me with a sense of control and power that had
eluded me for four hundred empty days since Gregory died on
Bridgeway Boulevard in the cold rain. For one night, I was not the
unknown girlfriend of a dead man. I was not the borderline alcoholic
who had been demoted and reassigned. I was not grieving. I was not
still hopelessly in love with a man who I would never see again in
this lifetime. It was a blissful delusion.
Morning came when a bright wisp of light slithered through the
heavy fabric of the hotel curtain that broke my sleep. I felt a weight
against my backside. I reached backward and felt the slope of a body
next to mine. Panic settled in. I had no idea who was in bed with me.
I turned slowly. My head was spinning, and a raw rumbling surged
in my gut. I barely made it to the toilet. My retching was forceful and
unrelenting. I knew I’d woken whomever it was I had brought back
to my hotel room.
There was a gentle knocking on the bathroom door, and a deep
voice, muffled from the heavy door, said, “I got you some 7-Up from
the vending machine. They didn’t have any ginger ale.”
“Thank you.” I tried desperately to recognize who belonged to
the voice. “I think I need a little longer in here, though. Just leave it
by the door, please.”
The response came after a long pause. “Okay.”
More silence.
“I don’t mean to rude, but I’ve got to get to the golf
tournament,” the voice said.
“Please. Go. Obviously tell them I won’t be joining my
foursome, would you?” I hoped he at least knew my name.
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“I will.” Silence again. “This is where I’m supposed to ask you
to give me your phone number.”
I groaned. The cold linoleum pressed hard against my back and
produced shivers along my spine. “Maybe it would be better if you
left your number for me. I am sure there’s a pen and paper next to
the phone on the desk out there.”
“Are you sure?” the voice asked.
“Yes. I’m sure. Really.” I just wanted him to leave me alone to
try to recall and regret my behaviors in peace.
“You can just give me your number from here. I’ll get the pen
and paper.” He was back too quickly. “I’m ready.”
“I live in Denver,” I said and hoped he wouldn’t want to make
the hour drive to see me again.
“That’s okay. I live in Dallas,” was the response.
With still no idea who I was conversing with through the door,
I relented, and recited my phone number to him.
“Okay. Cool. I’ll call you when I’m back in town. I get here
every few months for business.” There was an abbreviated pause.
“Last night was great.”
I cringed. It was bad enough I was going to have to recuperate
from a caustic hangover, but he had to add a trite cliché to complete
my nightmare.
The reunion evening had become another historic low point in
my life.
About a month later, I came home to a message to solve the
mystery.
“Hey, you lush. It’s me, Jeff. I’m flying in for a meeting on
Thursday. I thought I’d stay over a few days and see you. Call me
back.”
Finally, an identity for the man I’d slept with at the reunion.
One mystery was solved, but a new mystery presented itself. I was
curious about my own choice to sleep with someone like him. Jeff
hadn’t been a very prominent figure in school. He didn’t play sports,
didn’t hang with the cool crowds, not a loner, just kind of blended
with every group. He had been one of the few guys who came to the
reunion looking better than he had in high school. Most of them had
receding hairlines, bulges at the belly, still as cocky as they had been
in their school days while proudly offering an insurance or car sales
business card as if a moniker they had always dreamed of pursuing.
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I couldn’t decide whether it would be a good idea to see Jeff
when he was in town. Of course, the fact he lived in Dallas was a
positive. No commitment, no fears of getting roped into something I
wasn’t ready for. I didn’t have much time to decide since he was
arriving in only two days. I made a rash choice and returned his call,
relieved to learn he made hotel arrangements and wasn’t expecting
to stay with me. I suggested we meet up at a restaurant, a tactic to
keep me on my best behavior.
When I arrived, Jeff was already seated at the bar with a
cocktail. I showed restraint and ordered a white wine and sipped it
slowly. I studied him, unable to recall what had drawn me to him
the night of the reunion. But his easy wit and gentle smile put me
instantly at ease, and I saw what had led to my attraction. Yet, I
couldn’t avoid making comparisons to Gregory. Without the rush of
multiple drinks, fears of being intimate welled up. I was preoccupied
with judgments too early in the night. Jeff had to bring me back to
the conversation as my mind wandered with questions on how to
handle the night.
He seemed hesitant when I ask him why he wasn’t married yet,
but no alarm bells went off even though they should have.
Jeff flew into Denver every few weekends to see me, and I
warmed up to him more with each visit. I definitely hadn’t forgotten
Gregory, but the thrill of a relationship didn’t seem as impossible as
it had before. I never told Jeff about the past. Masking my sadness
when he was in town was a face I wore well. It was refreshing to not
be the misguided drunk. Jeff matched me drink for drink, so he
never thought my thirst for liquor problematic.
I missed sleeping next to Gregory most. So, by the end of our
evenings of bingeing on booze, liberated of any inhibitions, sex was
just a means to that end. My bliss was pretending the body next to
me was Gregory. His solid arms, the slope of his torso, the definition
of his thighs were reminiscent of Gregory. With my eyes closed, I
could trace my hands down the length of his body and recreate the
sensation of being with Gregory. He was a different man, different
coloring, different scent, but lying next to him provided an escape to
where I preferred to be. I was less haunted. I expected the physical
aspects would be the hardest for me to overcome.
Jeff couldn’t try to fill an emptiness he didn’t know existed. He
was content with the occasional weekend just as I was. To feel
attraction and affection seemed benign, since it never meant
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anything more. When he left on Sunday night, I was ready to be
alone with my memories of Gregory, to cry and ache in his absence. I
never wanted or demanded Jeff stay longer than he did. It was the
perfect respite every few weeks, and my feelings for Jeff never
detracted from what I still held in my heart for Gregory.
So I was unprepared for the pain that riveted through me when
I received a threatening call from Jeff’s wife to inform me she knew
of his infidelity. She hurled accusations at me, obviously believing I
was aware of her and their three kids, but my stunned response
must have given my ignorance credibility. She never revealed how
she learned of the affair, not that it mattered. A private detective,
monitoring his e-mails or phone calls, scrutinizing his credit card
statement, her method was irrelevant to me.
All I knew was I had relinquished a small piece of my soul to
trust in a new start, but it was quickly stripped back to its barest
threads.
Page 209
hapter
After I learned the truth about Jeff, I relapsed in my grief. What
new friends I had found tired quickly of me. At first they, too, were
sympathetic about my loss, but after a second or third night
watching helplessly as I drank myself into oblivion, they
disappeared as swiftly as they had appeared as I repeated my
addictive acts. I arrived listless, and often hung-over, at work,
burdened with little motivation and ability to perform. Mr. West had
no remorse the day he fired me. I couldn’t fault him. He had done it
by the book. I had skated under the parameters of his terms, until
my final day when I came to work intoxicated, fully expecting to be
fired, but powerless to change myself or the outcome.
I had some savings, but mounting debt didn’t faze me, so I
squandered a few months in the delusion I could get it back on track
once I was ready. I lied to my family, never telling them I lost my
job. I went for days at a time without leaving my apartment. I spent
mindless hours suctioned to the couch, absorbed in the absurdity on
each channel I cycled through. I kept the shades closed to shelter
myself from the sunshine. Some days I showered. Other days I chose
not to.
As New Year’s Eve approached, it was as pivotal an event as
the first anniversary of losing Gregory. With no friends to even
consider spending the night with, I stocked up for a night of binge
drinking. I made the obligatory call to my parents before I poured
my first drink. Lies about my fantastic plans for the night rolled off
my tongue easily. I had become so adept at fabricating friendships I
no longer had to rehearse my stories. I hung up the phone with only
the faintest guilt about my deception.
I tried to pace my drinks, but the inventory of bottles was
irresistible. After the first few drinks, the gentle dizziness that
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invaded my brain was a welcome escape. I staggered into the
bedroom with a bizarre desire to dress up for the night even though
I had no intention of stepping one foot out the door. I dug into the
depths of my closet, searching frantically for the plastic bag that
sheathed my beautiful indigo gown. Finally, my fingers latched onto
it, and as I tried to pull it out, the hanger snagged on a few garments,
resisting my pull. I yanked harder, and when it pulled free, I saw
Constance’s beautiful purple sweater she had given to me hanging
limp, lifeless on the hook of the dress hanger, a casualty of my
carelessness. I had ripped it across the shoulder seam; the delicate
strands of the weave were broken and ragged. Stunned, I moved
mechanically, back to the kitchen, and poured a straight shot. A
second followed. The familiar mental swirls began, and I stumbled
back toward the bedroom. I grabbed the ripped sweater from the
floor and climbed onto the bed. I blacked out, then woke to a
rumbling in my gut. I hadn’t eaten dinner, and I had only taken a
few bites of my frozen entrée at lunch because I had forgotten to set
the timer on the oven, and the burnt edges had colored the taste as
well.
Remembering the burnt smell made me recoil. I tried to block
the seared stench from my sensory memory, but my belly churned.
Sweat formed on my forehead and along the base of my neck. An
overwhelming sickening heat rushed through me. I fumbled my way
to the bathroom to splash cold water on my face. I saturated a
washcloth under the cold water rushing from the faucet. I went back
to the bedroom and put the washcloth on my feverish face,
momentary relief washing through me, but then my stomach
lurched. I felt a toxic burning in my throat I couldn’t keep down. I
pulled myself up, and the movement launched vomit onto the
carpet. I was horrified. But I couldn’t move. A few more bouts came
up, and I was disgusted but powerless to get myself into the
bathroom. I fell backward and lost consciousness until the rank smell
assaulted my nostrils a few hours later. Still woozy, I found a bucket
and some towels in the kitchen I took back to the bedroom. When I
turned on the light, I saw I had thrown up all over the precious
purple sweater. I crumpled to my knees and used it to sop up more
of the mess. Cleaning up the vomit gave me dry heaves, and I made
it to the bathroom just in time for next wave. I fell asleep on the
linoleum floor next to the toilet. It was hard and rigid, but the chill
against my cheek cooled me.
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Drinking to the point of excess happened frequently. It had
been a common occurrence for Joe, and it was so repulsive to me I
had explicitly avoided drinking to extreme while with him. But now,
I didn’t have the strength of will to limit my own drinks. The faster I
drank, the faster I could shed the pain of the intruding memories for
that space in time. Temporary or not, it was the easiest escape I could
control.
I wobbled my way back to the bedroom, the floor still stinking
of my retching, so I ambled out to the couch instead. I slept hard.
The slim rays of sunshine peeped through the edges of the blinds.
New Year’s Day. It was incomprehensible how in the past, I had
awakened on New Year’s Day in the arms of the man I was falling in
love with, but now I was waking up with my life ripped apart at the
seams.
Barely able to move the entire day, I vowed to never drink that
much again. But I broke that vow routinely every week until the
winter winds gave way to blazing sunny days. I was proud of myself
when I could go a few days without a drink, but I made up for any
abstinence by going completely overboard the next time. My liquor
habits took a toll on my savings. I could have doubled the time I was
out of work if I hadn’t squandered a small fortune at the liquor store.
I couldn’t ignore the need to go back to work, but it was problematic
finding and keeping a new job because of my drinking. My pattern
of sleep became totally erratic. Even on the rare days I might not
have a drink, fatigue from poor sleep left me just as unproductive.
Each time I lost one of the few jobs I managed to be offered, I
pretended it was a blessing in disguise. I always found an argument
as to how unfairly I was judged, how unreasonable their
expectations were, or how the work was beneath me anyway.
Anything to avoid admitting I was jeopardizing my life with my
binge drinking.
Shielding my parents and sisters from the truth about my
professional and personal crises, I had grand stories about my life,
thankful the distance separated me from being exposed again. But
when my checking account dipped under four figures, the dire
realization of needing work hit full force. When the phone didn’t
ring for a week after sending out a new slew of résumés, I dusted off
my briefcase and went to a temporary agency a few miles from my
apartment.
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Sitting among the other candidates, I had far superior
knowledge and skills, but far more skeletons in my closet. With few
references to claim, and the black mark of being fired from one of the
largest magazine companies in the country, I had higher hurdles
than a lack of education or experience to explain. But I felt more
confident when assessing the other women who waited in the
reception room with their synthetic shoes, scuffed, with heels worn
to only a protruding nail to balance on, in skirts far too short or
cleavage far too prominent for any respectable office environment.
When I was called back to meet with a recruiter, she looked at
me with unconcealed scrutiny. She was pointed and direct with her
questions, completely unconvinced with my contrived story about a
hostile work environment I had failed to report before I was fired.
She did say she would present my résumé to one prospective
employer, but there was an implied threat in her offer that made me
feel that this wasn’t something I could screw up, or I wouldn’t get
any other chances with her.
Even though I went home and drank myself into a stupor, I was
vindicated when the recruiter called three days later to offer me a
four-month assignment with a small specialty publisher. Yet, I knew
I had to work hard to overcome her doubts and earn her respect.
When I arrived at the location she had rattled off on the phone, I
was pleasantly surprised. The offices were bright and spacious, in an
upscale office park surrounded by ponds and walking paths. I was
immediately greeted by Kimberly, the office manager, who showed
me around and introduced me to the staff. She was a vibrant
woman, with long, luxurious auburn hair and brilliant blue eyes.
Instead of pale, freckled skin like most redheads, she had a deep
golden coloring, richly tanned, which made me think her gorgeous
cinnamon-red hair wasn’t natural.
I felt drab next to her. My hair had dimmed to a dull brown, the
color of a weak pot of coffee. Being indoors all the time, eating
processed foods deficient of any nutrients, and drinking so much
booze, had stripped the sheen from my hair and skin, I looked as
bland as any woman wandering the city streets, unsure of herself
and uncertain of what she could attain.
As Kimberly circulated with me through the office, I asked her
what specifically she needed me to do in the position, to which she
laughed and said, “Anything and everything we need you to do!”
But then she quickly clarified I would be helping with a variety of
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projects since they were short-staffed by three employees who were
out on maternity leave, spanning from editing articles to working
with advertising agencies for production work for ads, to offering
suggestions for upcoming issues.
Kimberly was impressed with my qualifications, and for the
first time in years, I felt a sense of pride. I integrated quickly, having
a solid foundation of knowledge about the publishing world, and
each time I indicated something else she didn’t have to train me on,
she clasped my arm and told me how grateful she was to have
someone like me come on board. I felt comfortable and appreciated. I
worked over nine hours my first day. After a quick trip to the
grocery store, I arrived at the apartment exhausted but exhilarated.
Too tired for even a single drink or shot, I ate a light dinner and
woke before my alarm the next day, awakened by a weak whimper
of enthusiasm to go to work. It was another long day, but the hours
didn’t bother me. In fact, I was happy for the diversion from the
liquor cabinet that had become too much of a fixation since my
termination from SportsZone. Kimberly wasn’t worried about the
overtime she paid me, and I was grateful to have the additional
income to help me recoup and make some lump payments on the
bills that glared at me from the overflowing pile on the far corner of
my kitchen table.
My new neighbor, Cathy, had arranged a blind date for me one
weekend. She didn’t know much about me other than our brief
pleasantries at the mailboxes, but she still considered me a perfect
match for her coworker, Brad. If she had known about my disastrous
professional descent, my addiction to alcohol, or my inability to
overcome my grief, she would have thought differently. When Brad
called to arrange getting together, I was grateful he chose a place
that served alcohol.
A few nights before we were scheduled to meet, I emptied my
closet, scouring it for anything that might actually fit. Pounds and
pounds had come off me, but I was emaciated, not slender. Every
top hung unflatteringly, exposing sickly, ashen, dehydrated skin.
Flat hair framed my face. I had been trimming my own hair, and
even a flattering shade wouldn’t overshadow a lopsided cut. The
next day, I asked Kimberly for the name of her stylist and booked a
late-afternoon slot for Saturday, barely hours before I was due to
meet Brad. I went to the salon apprehensive about the scolding I was
sure to get for taking regular scissors to my locks, but I was
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pleasantly surprised when the stylist made no mention of it. I
wondered if Kimberly had called her with a heads-up. I was even
more pleasantly surprised with the results. She added subtle
highlights, both blonde and a sort of caramel, to add a new
dimension to my drab color. She advised me to agree to a shorter
cut.
When she whirled me around in the chair, I didn’t recognize
myself. She had combed my hair forward from the crown in a sleek,
face-framing style. Astonished at the transformation in just a few
hours, I raced home to change into my outfit for the night feeling I
might be able to pull off looking somewhat attractive for my date.
But as I finished my makeup, there was still a veil of lifelessness in
my face. I brushed on an extra layer of mascara, added a deep
chocolate shade of eye shadow which gave me a more made-up look
than I wanted. A few more whisks of a rosy blush took it even
another step further, but I didn’t have time to start over. I slipped
into a light long-sleeve shirt to cover my arms’ pallor, even though
the temperature had hit the low eighties earlier in the day. The
burgundy-and-cream pattern clashed heavily with my makeup
colors, but the clock was ticking, and I needed time to drink my zest
for the night.
I arrived at the restaurant early enough to have a drink at the
bar. I downed the drink quickly, but held back from ordering a
second even though my thirst for the liquor was nearly
overwhelming. Fatigued from long days of work, I had been
drinking much less than usual since working for Kimberly.
Insatiable for more liquor to sedate my nerves, I could only
resist my temptation for a second cocktail for eleven minutes. Just as
I touched it to my lips, I caught sight of Brad with his unmistakable
height. He was even more immense than Cathy had described and
had to duck slightly when he came through the doorway. He
towered six foot six, with an athletic build, but showing an obvious
result of a good appetite. He had sandy blond hair, perfectly tousled
without being messy. His eyes were an appealing shade of a grayishblue
and his skin rough with a closely manicured beard.
He slid into the stool next to me and ordered a scotch for
himself. I made a game of only matching my sips to his, which paced
my consumption much better. Our talk was slightly stilted, but I
didn’t fault him for trying. When he left momentarily to give the
hostess our name for the wait for a dinner table, I gulped down the
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rest of my drink mercilessly, then ordered a third from the bartender
and drank it down to the level it was when Brad had stepped away.
When our table was called, Brad hoisted our drinks for us and
motioned me ahead of him. I hoped he wouldn’t notice how my
jeans sagged around my backside as I walked in front of him. We
were seated at a table on the deck among trees lit with vines of white
lights. After a wonderful meal and animated conversation, he boldly
told me he saw sadness in my eyes.
“Really. Sadness? I wonder why that is?” I said unconvincingly
in my pseudo-widow role. I attributed what he classified as sadness
to being just the result of a long week at work and switched the topic
swiftly. Revealing the facts about Gregory’s life and death had
become taboo for me. Talking about him was like rubbing the
wound raw again, and trying to get over him felt equally painful.
I led a very incongruous life to what my world had been with
Gregory in my life. I alienated everyone when I showed my
addictive alcoholic tendencies. I kept a safe distance from emotional
attachments, preferring isolation to socializing. If Cathy hadn’t been
so insistent about meeting Brad, it would have been another
successful effort in keeping my interactions with people to the barest
possible minimum. In the process, I had returned to the shell of my
former self in the final months with Joe. Withdrawn, contemplative,
unenthusiastic about anything in life. My brief fling with Jeff falling
apart so closely on the heels of the trauma of losing Gregory was a
setback to set the clock ticking on my recovery all over again.
As I sat with Brad, engaged by his attractiveness, eye to eye
with the prospect of feeling emotions for a man again, fraught with
the fear of desiring a man again and the possibility of what might
next happen to cause me hurt and pain, I stiffened up. He was doing
his best to draw me out, but I was paralyzed by my apprehension.
There was no way Brad didn’t notice how I clamped down, but
he didn’t give any indication it bothered him. After a stiff and
awkward hug in the parking lot, I walked to my car, convinced I had
entirely destroyed any interest he might have had in me. My
surprise when he called me three days later was not easily concealed.
At first I considered it an opportunity at redemption, especially
when he said, “There’s a truth to first impressions, and there’s also a
truth to giving people a second chance, so somewhere there’s a
middle ground.”
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I disappointed him on my second chance. Anxious to be on my
best behavior, and to soothe my nerves, I drank the proverbial one
too many before our date, with catastrophic consequences. He had
invited me to his baseball game, but before the first pitch, I tripped
getting into the bleachers, resulting in a four-hour visit at the
emergency room to ice and bandage a sprained ankle, with a stern
warning from the intern to drink less the next time I planned to be
out at an athletic event.
“Third time’s a charm,” Brad said when he called the next day,
annoying me with his clichés.
The third time wasn’t a charm. I was less intoxicated, but more
reserved than on our first date. Brad was undaunted. With every
antic that didn’t drive him away, it created a false sense of security. I
alternated between neediness, latching on, and wanting to be him
with him daily, to suddenly portraying myself as the “I have it all
together” successful career woman. Neither role suited who I truly
wanted to be. Amazingly, we survived through my alter egos over a
period of a few months, until one day when Brad just stopped
calling me altogether. I didn’t seek him out. I cried the obligatory
tears to mourn the death of another relationship, but since it was fate
far less tragic than what I had already endured, my recovery time
was greatly compressed.
Page 217
hapter
Disillusioned by the failure of another potential relationship, I
found the lure of hotel bars. It helped the objective to meet men
where there would be no emotional attachment. I would hang out at
the lobby bars, make up a story about my colleague being ill and
having to stay in for the night. After I got bored with that trite lie, I
crafted more elaborate ones. Being in town to accept an award, there
to visit a sick relative, and one time I was even bold enough to say I
was just a married woman interested in a one-night fling. At
minimum, a traveler bought me drinks. Sometimes it led to dinner.
Many times, it was a group of executives or coworkers, and I could
integrate seamlessly and share some laughter and exchange
conversation. On a very rare occasion, it led to sex. But it was the one
place where I had self-control. Dating the wrong man had bit me too
many times, making it easy to deny intimacy and focus purely on the
sexual aspects. Foreplay in the elevator on the way up to a man’s
room wasn’t a frequent outcome, but when it did happen, it
sustained me for quite a while.
Just like the alter ego I had created with Brad, my weekend
hotel ventures were a stark contrast to my working professional
persona during the week. The end of my four-month assignment had
come and gone, but the magazine had been growing, and Kimberly
kept finding creative ways to extend my time working there. I was
stimulated by the work, and even though I was getting friendly with
other women in the office, I kept a distance between them and the
realities of my personal life. Embarrassed to share any truths about
how I spent my weekends, I crafted stories with strangers at the
lobby bars as easily as I crafted stories every Monday morning to
appear like I had a normal life just like everyone else.
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For six years my self-destructive pattern continued. My life
became measured in spaces, huge gaps of time, not moments.
Monotony ruled my days, weeks, months. I dove with abandon into
a life of mediocrity I’d never dreamed possible. Kimberly had given
me a job at the publication, resurrecting a role similar to what I had
held at SportsZone. I worked hard and performed well, but never
sought out anything more complicated or strenuous. I still drank
voraciously every few nights and rotated around a select group of
hotels on the weekends. Nothing varied in my routine enough to
shake me out of my complacency. Or rather, I couldn’t shake myself
out of my miserable existence to create any variation in my routine. I
refused to acknowledge I still hadn’t come to terms with my grief
and spun my wheels relentlessly.
Time had moved quickly for me while I was with Joe. Being
with him was my model of how the passage of time could seem at a
standstill and at the same move so rapidly you couldn’t recall a
single daily experience between birthdays or holidays. In that
context, being with Gregory seemed like a lightning flash, only as
real to me as a powerfully moving dream.
The what-ifs took on entirely new meaning and mental play for
me. What if I had skipped the holiday party? What if Joe and I had
left earlier in the night? Would fate have still brought Gregory into
my life in a different manner? Would one of those encounters in the
elevator or in the lobby coffee bar have turned into flirtation and
dating? But the more burning and decisive question of all was what
if Gregory had stayed with me the night before he died? Would he
have not gone out in the rain that morning and averted tragedy?
Would fate have still intervened and taken his life a different day, a
different place, a different way?
Too often, I worried whether Gregory had died in pain. I hadn’t
been close enough to anyone to ask if he had actually suffered.
Was it instantaneous as they had said? Did he linger in agony
knowing his life was being stripped away? Did he think of me as he
died on the cold pavement, in the dusky light, with the spits of rain
pouring out of the troubled sky?
I battled with the concept of death and the notion of afterlife.
Brought up as a Catholic, the theory driven into my head was
heaven and hell. Throughout my life I had been taught of the
certainty of life everlasting and the promise of reuniting with those
we shared an earthly existence as the reward of a life well lived. But
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cynicism reverberated in my head in opposition, brewing a fearful
notion that, as an organism, life and spirit ceases with our last gasp
of breath.
The idea terrified me. Especially after I had a minor procedure
at the hospital. The methodical anesthesiologist thoroughly
explained the effects of the drugs, the physiologic analysis of how
my heart, lungs, and brain would respond to the sedation, how
every nerve and sensation in my body would become numb, that I
would feel no pain and would awake to a full resumption of my
organ functioning. I anticipated an awakening somewhat like the
experiences described by people who are brought back to life from
death, with colors and images swirling before me, alert, yet in a
dream state to my surrounding. But instead I awoke with a missing
segment of my life. It only went dark, completely black, no
recollection of the descent, no sense of time elapsed. Just a missing
segment of time.
I thought death must be the same. I no longer understood the
grand ideal we propel to a higher realm of being. What if the theory
of a great reunion in heaven was only a myth and when our heart
ceased to beat, everything we had within also ceased to be in any
form? What if this was our only chance at any existence? The
questions I created for myself were maddening and only drove me to
the bottles lining my countertop again and again.
The mound of documents was intimidating. After a few hours
of attempting to decipher legal verbiage that baffled me, I finally
figured out I wouldn’t comprehend it all and blindly scrawled my
signature with little legibility until the loan officer finally said, “And
here’s the last one.” I signed the stark white sheet with a flourish and
pushed my chair away from the table as he slid the sealed envelope
containing the house keys toward me.
“So…that’s it? I own it?” I asked. It seemed all too anticlimactic.
“All yours,” he said as he built his fortress of paperwork,
stacking pile upon pile upon pile.
I slid the keys out of the envelope, into my palm. The gold
metal, dull from years of use, lay with the weight of a boulder in my
hand. Anxiety and excitement competed in my mind, with no clear
winner. Buying a house hadn’t been my decision.
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It had been late winter when my mom died. It was sudden and
entirely unexpected. A heart attack in the middle of the day. She had
been at work and complained of indigestion for an hour after lunch,
when her boss finally sent her home. She didn’t even make it out to
her car and fell to a lifeless mound on the asphalt. The funeral
director had a hard time covering the bruises on her face.
It had been the first dreaded Mother’s Day after she died when
my father first approached the topic with me. It had been a chaotic
afternoon. My sisters and their husbands arrived, their collective
seven kids, oblivious to the solemn meaning of the day, running
through the house, screeching and laughing with wild abandon.
They hauled in an impressive collection of toys that were
immediately scattered on every square foot of carpeting or linoleum.
Noisy toys, squealing and amplified voices prevented any extended
conversation during dinner.
I expected tears and sorrow, but instead I found I was related to
masters of avoidance. We didn’t mourn her absence, didn’t share a
favorite memory or experience we shared with her, didn’t raise a
glass to toast our dearly departed matriarch. We just tried to act as if
everything was the same as always. It was the first day I found little
desire to drink.
After my sisters packed up the toys and the leftovers, it was just
Dad and me together finally, alone in the stifling silence.
“So, I’m putting the house on the market,” he said as he stirred
his coffee, staring out the kitchen window.
“What?”
“Yep. The realtor says spring is the best time to move a house.”
“But why?”
“It’s just not the same here anymore, Worm.” His continued use
of my childhood nickname was misplaced now that I was an adult.
“I’m getting too old to keep up a place this size all by myself. Your
mom had her sewing room, her crafts room, her sitting room. This
house was always more a place for her things than mine. It’s too full
of memories of her,” he said as he shuffled to sit down at the kitchen
table by me. He had aged dramatically since my mother died. I knew
I probably looked just as haggard from my loss.
“I can’t believe it. How long have you lived here?”
“It’ll have been forty-seven years this summer.”
“Wow. That’s hard to believe.” I had a hard time imaging what
life had been like in this house before my parents had five daughters
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running around. “Don’t you think it’s important to stay and be
around those memories?”
“No. I have the memories right here in my heart. If I were to
stay here, I would just get stuck in the process of grieving.
Sometimes you need a radical shift to bust out of its grip.” He took a
sip of the steaming coffee. It was so quiet I could hear him swallow
it.
“You know, honey, I still don’t really know what happened to
you out in California. But apparently it was something pretty
powerful to have changed you this much. I thought you were happy
with Joe, but that was what I wanted to think. I know whoever this
man was, he meant a lot to you and was more important than I will
ever know. But I need to see my little girl back. It’s been far too long.
I probably should have talked to you about this long before now. But
here it is.” He took a deeper sip of his coffee. He didn’t look directly
at me as he spoke. It had always been hard for him to look at me
directly in our infrequent and sporadic heart-to-heart talks.
“It’s time for you to move on. You live in a tiny apartment, with
all of your belongings in a shed down the street. Once this house
sells, I’m going to give you whatever you need for a down payment
to get you a house of your own to get you back on your feet with a
place of your own. Maybe after that happens, it will pave the way for
other good things to follow.”
“Dad, I couldn’t!” I protested.
“You can. And you will.” He was sterner than I had ever heard
him before. “Give me this pleasure. It’s my greatest dream for your
life to turn around.”
“Dad, it’s not that easy.”
“I didn’t say it was going to be easy. I don’t expect it’s going to
be easy. But I haven’t been a good father to you for not bringing this
to your attention sooner. And it’s time. It’s past time. You’ve allowed
yourself to get stuck in your sadness.”
“But Dad, he was just so perfect for me, in so many ways.” And
then I told him everything. About all the times I’d seen Gregory the
first few weeks I had worked at SportsZone. About how we met at
the holiday party. The details of our first conversation. Our first date.
Our first kiss. I told him about feeling new emotions and sensations I
had never known with Joe.
I told him all of it, up until the day Gregory died.
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“Daddy, I don’t even know if he knew. If he knew I wasn’t
pregnant. What if he died not knowing the outcome?” I collapsed
into his arms and wailed.
“Oh, sweetheart. I know. I know. And I am so sorry. I wish I
had known more about what you were going through. I wish I could
have been there for you, Worm. I didn’t know all of this. I didn’t
understand.”
He held me tightly. I couldn’t remember the last time we had
embraced, when I had been in his arms. Certainly as a child. Decades
and decades ago. For the first time in a long time, my old nickname
suited me just fine while he held me.
“But sweetheart, you can move forward. You can talk to him
every day. Every night. You can ask him those questions. You can
behave as if he were sitting right next to you. As if he were lying on
the pillow next to you. That’s what I do. You can grieve and still
experience life. You have to.”
“I’ll try, Dad. I will try.”
My dad had always been hardworking, but insightful and
healing? It was a different aspect of him I had never known. He
made me believe if death had changed him for the better, it could
certainly change me for the better.
I drove home with a new purpose, a new resolve. I rushed up
the stairs to my prison of an apartment and emptied every bottle
down the drain. As I lay in bed that night, I doubted whether I could
just turn off my appetite for booze cold turkey. But when I thought
about what Gregory would think of what I had made of my life, I felt
more confident. I opened my heart and felt his disappointment. I had
let myself down, let my family down, and let him down. I couldn’t
even conceive of him reacting as reprehensibly. Gregory would have
taken action. He would have figured out a way to overcome
adversity. He would have found a way to make sense of the
senseless.
I fell asleep with renewed aspirations to transform my
downward spiral. I knew I had to change myself to honor the
influence Gregory had on my life. Anything less reduced the wonder
of our relationship and everything I valued about him.
The first of those aspirations were in the envelope on my car
seat that carried the keys to a new phase in my life. When I drove up
the driveway of my first house, the enormity of the burden of being
a homeowner hung heavy on my shoulders, like I had walked
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through a rainstorm in a wool jacket. I felt a fleeting desire for a
drink I hadn’t had in months.
The key slipped solidly into the lock. I entered my new home,
blindly aware my accomplishment should feel so much less
frightening. It was a lonely event, curdled with the knowledge I
should be taking this step with Gregory. My father had offered to
come down for me, but the hour-long drive was hard at his age. I
was going to be alone for the rest of my life. I had to start getting
used to it.
I walked through the house. Each step on the hardwood floors
echoed through the empty space. The autumn sun glistened faintly
through the windows, and the scent of the burning pine on a crisp
fall day filtered in when I opened the back porch door. October was
always my favorite month in Colorado even though the blooms
began to wither and the leaves were turning their final shade of life.
I heaved the first heavy box of books out of my backseat. I
nearly lost my grip, splaying them onto the rock border along the
driveway. I struggled with it up the stairway. The final selling point
of this particular home was when the Realtor and I had walked into
the upstairs loft and found floor-to-ceiling bookcases. Finding the
perfect reading chair and ottoman like what Constance had back in
the cottage was going to be my first goal.
I wondered who she might have found to rent the cottage. I
couldn’t bear to think about anyone else inhabiting the space. It had
been such a natural fit for Constance and me. I missed her. I had
invested a lot of time and thought as to how I might rebuild my
relationship with Constance. A call or letter just didn’t seem
sufficient. I needed to make a visit. It needed to be more heartfelt
and a genuine effort to repair the fracture I had created. She had
been such a wonderful friend even in the short time I knew her. I
had neglected the importance of that, both to myself and to her. I
owed her a spectacular apology.
I returned to my car, to where the painting she had made for me
rested delicately in the backseat, wrapped with layers of packing
paper to preserve its beauty and grace. I had brought the one tool
necessary, and a nail, as it was going to be the crowning piece for my
new bedroom.
When the holidays came, I packed my bags and drove up to my
dad’s on Christmas Eve. A slow snowstorm was rolling in, so I
loaded my car up early to avoid getting snowbound at home. It took
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me over an hour longer than it should have to get to my father’s new
condo, but I was determined to make it. I had no desire to be alone
for the holiday or to let my dad be alone. This was going to be
another tough holiday, another first without Mom, and I wanted to
make it special for him. But he had a bigger surprise waiting for me.
“A puppy?” I asked when I was greeted by the tiny white
creature with a rapid-fire tail.
“You said you were considering getting a puppy when you got
your place, so I thought this would be perfect.”
“He’s mine?” My heart surged with excitement. “He’s
adorable.” The pup’s nearly black, saucer-size eyes pleaded with me
to cuddle him while his bright pink tongue dangled sideways from
his petite little mouth. “What breed is he?”
“The shelter said they think he’s a mix of Chihuahua and
possibly a poodle. They’re not exactly sure. But they don’t get
puppies often, and he just stole my heart.”
The little pup strained to lick my face, but his lopsided tongue
worked against him, and he could only lick frantically at the air.
“What are you going to name him?” my dad asked.
“I’m not sure.” I smiled as the pup frolicked around me. “But
‘Joe’ seems appropriate.”
“You girls,” my dad said, shaking his head.
“Gotta keep Sis’s tradition going.”
But within the first week, my enthusiasm for my first puppy
was dampened by the responsibility of him. I raced home from
work, worried I would be late to pick up Joe for his first vet
appointment. Once again, I came home to accidents on the rug.
“Oh, Joe…am I going to have to call you Piddles instead?” I
moaned as I grabbed the spot cleaner and the dwindling roll of
paper towels.
Already stressed from not leaving work on time, the roads were
clogged with cars as a freezing rain pelted down from the murky
skies. I arrived at the vet clinic frazzled, my hair glazed with white
crystals, and Joe whimpering from the thrashing winds that
whipped at us as we crossed through the parking lot.
The receptionist glared at me, agitated I was late, and shoved a
clipboard of forms at me to complete. Most of the questions were a
mystery since Joe was from a shelter, but I scrawled what I knew in
the tiny boxes on the form too small to fit my responses.
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When the veterinarian entered the small exam room, he was
unexpectedly handsome and polished. His thick, ashy brown hair
was slicked back, and he wore impeccably pressed shirt and slacks.
His shoes gleamed. I expected a veterinarian in scrubs or jeans
covered with dog and cat hair and was immediately conscious of
how unpolished I looked.
“Pleased to meet you, Mrs. Riverdale,” he said, shaking my
hand.
“Ms. Riverdale.” I corrected.
“Ms. Riverdale,” he said with a sincere and dazzling smile.
“So this is Joe?” He gently stroked Joe behind the ears. “That’s a
most unusual name for such a little guy.” “My sister started the
trend,” I explained. “She named all of her dogs after ex-boyfriends,
so I had to follow the family tradition.”
“I see. I wonder how many dogs named Dr. Dexter are running
around this city?” he said, amused.
During Joe’s exam, Dr. Dexter asked more questions about my
life and work than about Joe. It was the most obvious flirtation
since…since Gregory. When Dr. Dexter stepped out of the room
briefly to take an urgent call, I snatched my compact from my purse
and grimaced at how I looked. I whipped the powder brush across
my nose and cheeks, and dotted lipstick as quickly as I could, just in
time for him to step back into the exam room.
At the end of the visit, Dr. Dexter listed out all the
recommendations and costs for Joe’s care, training plan, and
nutrition regimen. I suddenly felt completely overwhelmed, and
without provocation, tears poured out.
“Hey, are you okay?” Dr. Dexter asked as he positioned himself
next to me and put his arm around me as I clutched Joe tightly.
“No. I just don’t know if I can do this. I can barely keep up with
my life as it is. I work fifty hours a week, and I’m running myself
ragged trying to take care of Joe. I just don’t know if I can do this.”
“I understand,” he said empathetically. “It’s a big
responsibility. Tell you what. I normally don’t do this, but I see from
your chart you live very close to me. How about we meet at
Riverdale Park on Saturday? It’s right across from the golf course. I’ll
help you, I promise. It will all be okay.”
For the first time in many years, his words comforted me, and I
did feel like it would be okay.
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Page 227
hapter
As I got ready to take Joe to the park the following Saturday, I
allowed myself to get excited about seeing Dr. Dexter. I changed
outfits three times, reminiscent of early days preparing for dates
with Gregory. Initially, it saddened me, but I refused to let it taint
my day. It was becoming apparent, in every day, there would be
some pinch in my heart, but I was able to be more realistic about not
expecting complete absolution from sad moments. It was futile to
eliminate the pain, so I strived to simply balance those moments
with positive emotions from my days with Gregory, redirecting my
thoughts to the laughter we shared, our passionate nights in bed, or
just his smile.
Joe seemed intuitive about what the day held for us and was on
his best behavior. When he bounded from the car seat, a fleeting
doubt came Dr. Dexter would not be at the park, but the thought
was quickly swept aside when I spotted him near the park’s
fountain. As if sensing my arrival, he turned in my direction, raising
his arm to motion to me. He had a sculpted black Labrador leashed
near his side, and we simultaneously began walking toward each
other. He released his dog as it loped toward us with its tongue and
ears flopping in unison and unchecked enthusiasm.
“That’s Viking,” Dr. Dexter called out to us. “He won’t hurt
either of you.”
Viking raced up to us and gave me a gratuitous slurp, but then
put all attentions toward Joe as they sniffed and nuzzled each other.
An immediate bonding started before my eyes as Dr. Dexter walked
up with a dazzling smile.
“You are a godsend, Dr. Dexter,” I said, extending my hand.
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“Please, call me David,” he suggested. He nodded to our dogs
playfully pawing each other despite Viking’s massive stature and Joe
being barely larger than a squirrel. David shook his head, laughing.
“Viking and Joe. Not exactly movie-title-worthy like Lady and the
Tramp, but it’ll grow on me.”
David promptly switched to his veterinarian persona and began
teaching me how to handle Joe. After an hour of focused work, Joe
panted hard and slurped up water voraciously, with pitiful,
pleading eyes that said he had heard enough commands. David
intervened before I had to and scooped Joe up, cradling him like a
baby, sweetly massaging his tired paws.
“I don’t know if you’d be comfortable with this, but since we
have both dogs, and as a vet, I can’t condone leaving them in a
parked car while we had lunch, how about we go to my house and
make ourselves a bite and let these guys get some rest?” His normal
confidence didn’t come out in his words. I could see he wasn’t sure if
I would accept.
My protective layer that usually rose up stayed dormant. I
accepted his offer graciously but offered to follow him in my car to
his house. We drove only a short distance, giving me relief to see we
lived less than a mile apart. David’s house was barely visible
through massive trees that bordered his property, the stone exterior
broken by olive trim and shutters. We entered through the front
door into a foyer with a winding staircase leading up to the second
level. The tile was a bold, adorned pattern of red and gold crests.
Three openings led out of the foyer, one to the front room, one to a
dining room, and he led me through the third into an expansive
kitchen.
Joe followed me, tentatively sniffing in every corner. His tail
wagged, but he was completely worn out. David bunched up some
plush towels still warm from the dryer to create a bed for Joe as he
made us an extravagant lunch of smoked salmon and goat cheese
sandwiches. I flinched when he brought out a bottle of white wine,
and instead of declining, which might lead to having to reveal the
dark secret of my propensity for liquor gluttony, I let him pour me a
glass. As we ate in his sun porch, it was warm enough to prop open
the bay windows. A muted sun shone down through the trees, onto
the patchwork of green and straw-colored grasses. A light breeze
blew in, but glimpses winter hadn’t exhausted its efforts were
evident in the hardened, icy, glazed piles of caked snow and the
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haloed clouds crouching over the mountains. We were so caught up
in our conversation,
I barely took more than a few sips of wine. Escape into
intoxication was no longer a necessity.
Over the next few months, my relationship with David
blossomed. What began as a help for me and Joe quickly developed
into something far more beneficial. Talking to David was incredibly
cathartic. Instead of hiding my past, I shared many of my scars. But
it had to be bit by bit. It was still all too raw for me to divulge the
dismal mess I had made of myself. If I couldn’t reveal it all, I
couldn’t move past it, but I kept some wounds of my truths
wrapped. David was compassionate, but there was a limit to how
much I could expect him to accept. David had a huge empathetic
capacity from his medical training that equipped him to deal with
the psychological aspects of his clients and their pets, even though I
saw his eyes mist up when I spoke of the depth of my heartache.
David was truly a distinct personality, but he had traits
reminiscent of Gregory. Not specific gestures or manners of speech,
but just his essence, generous, spontaneous, and driven by passion.
So few people find love once in their lifetime, I couldn’t comprehend
how I could be blessed to love and be loved by two incredible, yet
different men. I still ached for Gregory, but surrendered to my
growing admiration for David, plunging in, not fearlessly but also
not recklessly.
The years of lost time before meeting David became a hazy,
humiliating memory. How I had nearly destroyed my career.
Splurging thousands of dollars on liquor, disintegrating what
remnants remained of my former life. I had become isolated, with no
confidant, no friends, no relationships in the aftermath of my own
destruction. Worrying about losing someone I had a connection with
suddenly felt like a childish notion. I didn’t allow fears to interfere
with David, even though I knew explicitly how either of our lives
could change in an instant.
Random memories of Gregory still crept in, some triggered by
the obvious: seeing a bicyclist zip through traffic, or ordering a cup
of coffee, and especially when David and I worked out together.
Other times thoughts of him slithered in the most unexpected ways,
while walking the aisles of a grocery store, folding warm clothes
from the dryer, or just scrubbing the kitchen floor.
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But Gregory’s memory was becoming hazier as the months
passed, which filled me with dread. David was the wonder in my
new life, but I didn’t want it to obliterate the only beautiful
memories I had from my former life. I had no photo of Gregory to
refresh his face in my mind. His voice, his soothing, sturdy voice,
had been unheard for nearly a decade. I listened intently to the
television, the radio, out at stores and restaurants, anywhere I might
hear a man’s voice that carried the same tenor, the same comfort that
his voice held, to resurrect his sound to carry me through another
decade. Anything to prevent him from completely fading from my
senses. I sought a sign from him, some indication to assure me his
spirit could still touch me, still inspire me, still stir me to action.
I wasn’t prepared when the sign finally came. It restored every
image of Gregory, but it also brought painful, jagged fragments that
punctured my heart all over again. Leaving my corner coffee shop, I
caught a glance of an issue of Trails on a table. It was an irregularity,
to say the least. The publication had been retired from circulation for
over five years. The cover stopped me in my tracks. A wooded pine
forest with a brilliant blue sky overhead glared at me from the cover.
I picked up the magazine and studied the picture closer. A wellworn
pathway wound and disappeared into the midst of the dense
tree line was barely perceptible in the cover image. The tagline read:
A Rocky Mountain Escape. I flipped to the masthead, and the
floodgates surged open. There, in black-and-white, was Gregory’s
name. I flipped back to the cover, where my eyes were drawn to the
issue date, April 2004. The last issue Gregory worked on. Lying there
in my path, nearly a decade out of date, too significant to be a
coincidence. Despair flooded into my heart as if I had fallen
backward into the very year he died. I had to reorient myself. I
scanned the coffee shop. No one was in sight except the workers
behind the counter. I put the magazine down and backed away from
it as if it was a ghost itself.
I walked mindlessly out to the parking lot, but the specificity of
that particular issue falling into my path was too disturbing to
ignore. Before I reached my car, I turned, rushed back inside, and
snatched the magazine for my own.
I had found the magazine the weekend before a business trip to
Southern California. I had already contemplated going to the
cemetery while I was there, but coming across that particular issue of
Trails solidified my plan.
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I hadn’t followed the procession to the cemetery after Gregory’s
funeral, so it would be my first visit to his grave. Suspended
between needing to say my final good-bye and apprehension about
seeing just a plot and headstone to mark his existence, the choice
gnawed at me. David reassured me it was a necessary step for
closure and even offered to go with me. Yet I knew it was going to be
a private journey, and he wasn’t offended when I rejected the offer.
David and I spent a wonderful evening together the night
before I left. Joe and Viking romped around his massive
entertainment room as we nestled in the couches with our glasses of
wine, candles burning throughout the room. The DVD we had
rented to watch laid in full view on the coffee table, but our
conversation was far more compelling.
We had the proverbial “where is this all going?” discussion. Early
on in our relationship, he had revealed he was still reeling from his
former fiancée deserting him just three months before their
scheduled wedding date. At the time, he had said it had been a total
shock. He was destroyed. But now in retrospect, after three years
had passed, he said indications had always been there she would
have no reservations about her brash conclusion to their
relationship.
David and I had been together through the fading winter
snows, the rebirth of spring, and the dire heat of the summer. He felt
we had built a solid foundation and trust that surpassed his
expectations. I had assumed he had dated a few other women since
we had started dating—I hadn’t pried into what he did in his time
away from me—but it was clear he only spent time with me. Other
than an occasional lapse or two venturing to upscale hotel bars from
boredom, relishing in a few harmless flirtations with successful
businessmen who didn’t blink an eye at paying for a ten-dollar
martini, I had been completely faithful to my budding relationship
with David. I never ordered a second drink, knowing my tolerance
level was compromised after one. Touching or kissing another man
since I had started seeing David held no appeal for me.
David clasped my right hand in his as we faced each other on
the couch and said, “There’s nothing I want more than for us to only
see each other.”
I nodded in agreement. I didn’t feel any sensation that loving
David would be a betrayal to Gregory. It was actually my love for
Gregory that prepared me to be a better partner for David. If only I
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could erase the other flaws in my life, I would be ideal for a man like
David, who lived with integrity, dignity, and discipline. As I gave
my commitment to David, I feared my secret imperfections would
seep from my pores. I was glad for the chance to escape the
following day for my business trip, to let it all sink in and figure out
the best way to share my flaws with David without chasing him
away.
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hapter
As the plane approached Los Angeles, the nauseatingly filthy
skies made my stomach boil. Still sick throughout my business
meetings, ready for any excuse to postpone going to the cemetery, I
hoped we would run long, but the meetings wrapped up early. I
drove my nondescript rental car through the complex interchange
from Hollywood Freeway, east onto the San Bernardino Freeway,
toward the cemetery. I was accosted by the impersonal logistics of
the memorial gardens, an expansive location settled right in the
midst of the deafening roar of the freeway and steely gray buildings
that loomed above it.
Although, once inside the ornate, scrolled gates, I walked into a
tranquil world. The serenity was tangible, and the mist of many
souls felt like a smooth veil that grazed against my skin. I found the
administration building easily. But my day became tinged with
frustration quickly, as they couldn’t find any record of Gregory’s
grave. I drove away dejected, unprepared for the bizarre twist. A
few miles away, I turned back. It was an important trip to
accomplish.
“Can you please check again?” I disliked my own pleading. The
attendant shuffled back through the files reluctantly. “Maybe it’s
misfiled or spelled wrong?” I meant to sound helpful, but my words
came across overly insistent, almost badgering. The attendant gave
me an irritated glance, but he checked the computer again.
“Names were reversed. Vincent Gregory. Here he is,” he said
without apology as he scribbled a plot number across the top of a
preprinted slip and slid it across the countertop. On the sketch of the
cemetery grounds, he scrawled lines and arrows directing me to
Gregory’s gravesite.
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As I returned to my car, I saw an assembly of weeping
mourners departing a small chapel. A mother holding the hand of a
small, mystified little boy stood at the top of the steps as the tearworn
funeral-goers gathered around her on the chapel steps. She
bent down and spoke something softly to the boy, he nodded his
head to her, and then she stood, and they marched down the steps
with grace and poise, illustrating everything I had not shown in the
throes of my grief. The mother and child portrayed what I wanted to
see in myself and, for once, felt I might actually be able to project.
As I wandered through the maze of the enormous cemetery, I
wondered why I was really there. My life was so radically different
than it had been when I had known Gregory. Over the last decade, I
had continually wondered whether Gregory and I would have had a
sustaining relationship. Maybe the jerk in the bar the night before his
funeral had been right. Maybe I had only been caught up in the
novelty of a new relationship. In Gregory’s absence in my life, the
future we might have had was only of my own speculation. I wanted
to believe we had enough depth and desire that would have kept us
together. But it was a gap of knowledge that was pervasive.
In the years of coping with the loss of Gregory, I had come to
believe we don’t have one given destiny, but many possible
destinies, none of which would be more gratifying or satisfying, just
different. It was a simple notion that kept me somewhat sane.
Fortune, fate, and destiny. Gregory had found those meanings in the
constellations of the beauty marks on my body. Meeting Gregory
was my fortune, losing him was my fate, my destiny to live without
him. That destiny repelled me. I needed an alternate destiny to feel
any purpose in life.
To keep sane, I also tried not to imagine if I had been pregnant
when Gregory died. It was too painful to contemplate. Single
parenthood was complicated enough, but considering how long it
took me to get my act together after losing him, I knew I would have
failed as a parent. Yet, I was torn such an incredible man like
Gregory left this world with no legacy. It was nearly a daily
occurrence that I wondered what had happened to his writing. I
shuddered it might be lying among stored boxes with other
mementos of his life.
My heart sank thinking about mementos. I didn’t have many
from my relationship with Gregory. The funeral and memorial
programs were not the comforting mementos I wished for. And the
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unused ticket from the opening night of the ballet. A piercing,
heartache of a night that was never meant to be.
I did have the books; the one he had chosen for me at City
Lights and the replacement books he had so graciously found for me
that Christmas. Buried somewhere in the boxes from Sports Zone in
storage, I might find his handwritten note he sent before our first
date. I had not had the foresight to print out all of the messages he
had sent from my work e-mail before I was unceremoniously fired.
But, more importantly I had no photos of us, not even a napkin or
matchbox from our many dinners out. No other heartwarming
keepsake to dwell on other than the memories in my heart and soul,
which at certain times seemed more than enough.
As I climbed up the rather steep hillside scattered with graves, I
scanned the stones bearing the names of people unknown to me, but
significant to someone, somewhere. I calculated ages from the birth
and death dates etched in the marble, babies, teenagers, young
adults to the old. Death was indiscriminate. As I got closer to the
mapped indicator of Gregory’s plot, I scanned the names more
carefully: Belinda. Andrew. Fred and Shirley. Samuel and Molly.
People laid together for eternity just as randomly as they might have
been seated on a plane. A gravesite, eternal entombment, seemed
certain to need some kind of logic to it. Accident victims, murder
victims, cancer deaths, shouldn’t they all reside together? Wouldn’t
they find the manner of death a familiar reason for order in their
final resting place? It seemed a ridiculous yet interesting notion.
Suddenly I saw his headstone.
Gregory S. Vincent
5/7/1979 – 4/24/2004
The reality of losing him hit full force again, as painfully as it
had been ten years before. I closed my eyes and tried to picture his
face, wincing that his memory had dimmed and only extraneous
images fluttered before my eyes. Gregory had paled and diffused
from my senses. The sound of his voice muted by the years lapsed.
The familiar sting in my eyes and the tightening of my throat started
simultaneously. Standing felt too stark and distant, so I dropped to
my knees and tried to absorb more memories from his grave.
Compelled to apologize to him for the mess I had made of my
life after losing him, I cried into the soggy grass. “I am so sorry,
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Gregory. I lost you, and I lost myself too. My life had no meaning
without you. But I let the end of your life be the end of mine.”
Everything else I needed to confess was strangled by the bitter tears
that pelted my skin. Tears typically offered some release, but that
day they were just raw and burning. I cried until the sun dipped low
against the steel and smoggy skyline.
In the dirty dusk, exhausted from my breakdown, I saw a man
approaching up the hillside between the headstones. I recognized
the walk and the face with a heart that felt betrayed, until the reality
of his identity sunk in.
The man approached tentatively, as if not expecting a visitor at
that particular grave.
I spoke first, rising to my feet. “Hello,” I said as I wiped the
grime off my face and clothes.
“Hello,” the man responded.
We stood briefly for a moment, uncertain as to what etiquette
for introductions at a graveside might be.
“I’m Spencer, Gregory’s brother,” he said, then turned solemnly
back to look at his grave.
But he had no need to introduce himself. I had recognized him
from the funeral and memorial, but mostly because of his
unmistakable resemblance to Gregory.
I wasn’t sure how to introduce myself to him, so I simply said,
“I’m Alicia. I worked at SportsZone.”
We stood together in silence until I told Spencer I remembered
when he had come to San Francisco to visit Gregory. He smiled and
nodded.
“That was a good trip.” He coughed to clear his voice when it
broke on the last word. “It was the last time we all saw him alive.”
I paused and then added some facts I knew would be important
for him to know.
“Gregory did want you to move in with him after you
graduated. He was just worried your parents would have a hard
time with both of you living so far away.”
Spencer turned and looked at me with intent curiosity.
I had to confess how I knew about this intimate information.
“Gregory and I were dating when he died.”
“You’re Riverdale?” he asked with a degree of incredulity.
“Yes. I’m Riverdale.” I felt tears welling up again. Someone had
known about me.
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“I never knew your first name. I had no idea how to find you.”
Spencer’s words poured out.
Relief flooded through me. I wasn’t as anonymous after all.
“I was here. I came for the funeral. I spoke to your mom, but
she didn’t know who I was.”
Spencer clarified for me. “That’s not true. She knew about you.
Gregory had told us quite a bit about you. She just didn’t know your
name.” He went on, “In fact, I don’t even think he told us you
worked together, so we didn’t connect two and two. He seemed
rather…protective…of what you had.”
I felt strangely vindicated. I had wasted years living in agony
and alone in my misery. I was the most ignorant person about the
importance of my own relationship.
As the darkening sky turned to a deep sable blue, Spencer and I
shared other stories about Gregory. While I still could not visualize
Gregory as clearly as I wanted, the memories made me smile and
calmed my heart.
“This may be entirely inappropriate to ask of you,” I
stammered, “but it’s been very hard to hold on to what I had with
Gregory. There’s really nothing I have to remember him by, no
photos of us, no evidence he was ever even a part of my life. There’s
a book he gave me on our first date, but…nothing really reflected the
meaning of what he had together. It’s been ten years of pure
torment.
“Would it be possible for you to send me something of his?” I
asked, but feared how Spencer would interpret the request, so I
backpedaled somewhat. “I mean, nothing that really means a lot to
you or your parents, just…a little something, a picture, a sweater,
anything to give me some comfort in his absence.”
My voice caught, and Spencer reached out to embrace me.
“That’s not inappropriate to ask at all. I am so sorry you’ve felt so
disconnected all this time.” Then he looked at me with a seriousness
that defied description. “You should come with me. I think it’s time
for everyone to know how happy Gregory was in the last months of
his life. He didn’t tell me everything, but there was something
indeed different and special about what you had going on very
apparent in him.”
I was exhilarated. “You have no idea how much that would
mean to me,” I gushed. “But I don’t want to just spring this on your
parents.”
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“I hear what you’re saying. But when it comes to something
important in Gregory’s life, advance notice is not needed.” Spencer
smiled, and my heart sang, lifted at how familiar and loving his
generosity felt.
We drove to the Vincent home, and it couldn’t have been any
closer to what I had imagined for the past decade. Lit by warm lights
flowing from each interior window and exterior landscape lights, it
had an unassuming, yet tastefully groomed front lawn, lush with
rosebushes and trees. The stone-paved driveway arched in front of
the entrance to the house, with a side drive that led to the garage in
back. Dangling from the front deck, a chair swing swayed almost
imperceptibly amid two large rocking chairs, and an assortment of
other chairs and tables suggested the front porch was a favorite
gathering spot.
As I pulled my rental car in behind Spencer’s car, he sounded a
quick toot from the horn, generating activity from the windows. As
we walked to the front doorway, Spencer took my hand. His parents
came to the porch with quizzical looks.
“Mom, Dad,” he said with a suspenseful pause. “This is an
introduction far overdue. This is Alicia Riverdale. She was the
woman Gregory was dating when he died.”
His mother’s face showed immediate recognition. “You? We
spoke at the funeral,” she said as our eyes connected. “I was so
dismissive. Gregory’s ex-girlfriend was just so overcome with
emotion the entire day. It was exhausting. When I came back to talk
to you, you were gone.”
I was unprepared for her radically different assessment of our
meeting at the funeral. “I am so sorry. I misunderstood. I felt so out
of place, so much like an intruder.”
“Oh no, my dear.” She looked at her husband, shaking her head
for his confirmation. “We knew Gregory was seeing someone. He
was just so secretive about it, even though we could tell he was
getting very serious with someone. I just didn’t know it was you. In
fact, we were so consumed by the loss, we didn’t even think about it
all again until the anniversary. We talked about the memorial up in
San Francisco and wondered which of you might have been the
one.”
She ushered me inside. “Come in, come in. You must come in.
There is so much to learn.”
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I had a flight to catch in a few hours, but I wasn’t foolish
enough to miss out on this unexpected introduction. I knew I could
rebook a flight, no matter what the cost, and the hotel I had stayed at
had many vacancies. This was a far more priceless place to be.
The familiarity of their home made me feel immediately
welcome. We settled in the massive front room with luxurious,
comfortable couches, where the walls were plastered with family
portraits and tasteful artwork. There was no awkwardness. There
was no preamble. I divulged my hurt, my pain, my disconnection
from it all, without remorse. It was as if this was what all the
missteps had been leading to. I worried fleetingly I was revealing too
much, but it had been pent up far too long, I didn’t even care if I
seemed obsessive and slightly out of my mind. Without this
expression, I feared I might veer back onto my road of destruction.
I shared some of the more benign facts about my journey since
losing Gregory and that I was still sorely stuck in some stages of my
grief. I revealed my desire to have been with Gregory for the rest of
my life, what he meant to me, and how desperately devoid of my
aspirations I’d become without him by my side. I decided not to tell
them about the pregnancy scare, having developed some wisdom in
my advancing years.
Spencer and his parents were so embracing, I had no timidity.
They tried to phone his other brother and seemed positively
distraught when we didn’t catch him at home to share the news of
our reunion.
We talked for hours, and even though the chimes of the
grandfather clock signaled it was nearly midnight, I had to ask the
question of which I most feared their response.
I repeated what I had shared with Spencer at the cemetery, that
I had only intangible yet precious memories, but nothing concrete
from Gregory in my life after all this time. I thought it would sound
less intrusive to phrase it as a statement than a request.
“What I really regret is that I never got to read any of his work.
A photo, a memento, has even less value to me than having some of
his writing to inspire me to move forward. He never let me read any
of it, but I just sensed how talented he was, and it would be so
meaningful for me to see some of his work.”
His father had been mysteriously silent most of the evening. I
noticed him studying me throughout our conversations, and my
words prompted him to finally speak again.
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“I’ve watched you. When you speak of him, speak of Gregory, I
can feel your passion and respect. I see your pain of losing him. The
depth is evident. Despite that we never met you while he was alive,
your devotion is evident. Thank you for being a significant part of
his life. I knew you brought him happiness he hadn’t known before
you. I am honored to finally meet you.”
Then he nodded his head toward Mrs. Vincent. She smiled and
excused herself from the front room. She was back in a moment,
teetering under the weight of a heavy, large, ribbon-tied, patterned
box. She pulled the ribbon off and opened it to show me mounds of
handwritten pages from Gregory, along with copies of every one of
his articles. They had obviously kept all his writing accessible and
made it a vault worthy of the contents. I was astonished by the
volume of work Gregory had produced in his short life.
I was even more astonished when his mother said, “Take
whatever you want. You can send it back to us later. Whenever you
decide you’ve gotten what you need to keep your memories strong.
We know his work is safe with you.”
It was a degree of trust that pierced my heart.
I instinctively reached out to embrace her. “You gave a great
gift to this world with Gregory. It was a turning point in my life
when I was with him. I miss him desperately and wish I could erase
the loss for all of us. Thank you for entrusting me with his work. I
am grateful beyond words.”
Page 241
hapter
I tried on multiple occasions to read Gregory’s work. Back at the
hotel after meeting his family or on the flight home felt far too
commercial for such a momentous reintroduction to the first true
love of my life. Even back at home, I couldn’t just delve in, the time
and place was crucial since I would have to open my heart to a pain I
hadn’t felt since the day Gregory died.
I postponed it time after time, as if it had to occur on some
significant day, like the anniversary of the company holiday party or
our first date, but those blocks on the calendar were months and
months away. I sent a note to Gregory’s family thanking them for
giving me such an important slice of Gregory to bring back with me.
At first I wrote as if I had read it all, but that false note was quickly
crumpled up and thrown into the trashcan. Next I wrote the truth of
it, that my fear of opening the wounds again had prevented me from
reading any of it. Yet. But I closed the letter to them with complete
assurance the magnitude of my love for Gregory would give me the
strength to get through all of his work and that the right time was
soon to come.
I worried how David would perceive Gregory reentering my
life in this manner. He had been unbelievably tolerant of my near
obsession with Gregory, so when he met me at the baggage claim
after my flight home from California, I told him something
spectacular had happened on my trip, but I needed some time before
I could tell it all to him.
“There’s a lot I have to process in my own head before I tell it to
anyone else,” I explained and rationalized in the same statement.
Fortunately, David let me come to terms with what I experienced
without any pressure to divulge it.
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When David was leaving town for a week-long training
conference for a new medical device he had purchased for the clinic,
I seized the chance to immerse myself in Gregory’s work. He left on
Sunday afternoon. It was a blustery day that blew wilted leaves from
tree limbs, sweeping them into the air in their final swirls of life. By
evening, the winds had calmed, and I opened a few windows to let
the smell of burning fires from the homes somewhere in my little
community seep into my living room.
Surrounded by candles and soothing music, I opened the
reverent box of Gregory’s work and was quickly consumed by his
craft. Joe slept plastered to my leg as I rustled through the mounds
of pages and chose which ones to read first. Gregory’s stories were
eloquent, witty, and poignant at times. His work was exceptional in
quality and substance. There were quite a few beginnings of a
variety of stories, but the lengthiest piece was a fictional portrayal of
a man overcoming physical handicaps and hardship in life to earn a
competitive title and find love. It was nearly complete, with a solid
opening and conclusion and only a few central chapters still in
skeleton form, but very apparent it was his core work. I skimmed it
from start to finish, but set it aside for later, when I could read it
slowly and deliberately, from beginning to end, giving it the
attention it deserved, remembering Gregory had often written while
we were together.
I spent the week poring over the other works, but I saved the
most significant for the night before David was going to return. I
resumed my ritual as I had all week, lighting candles, choosing only
peaceful acoustic CDs, and placing Joe tenderly onto my lap.
I opened the hardbound navy book with the gold scroll on the
front. I smiled remembering Gregory’s mother flagging me down
just as I was pulling out of the driveway. She approached the rental
car, but kept looking over her shoulder as if she would be caught
doing something unthinkable.
She slipped around the front of the car as I rolled down the
window.
“I probably shouldn’t give this to you. But based upon what
I’ve read in here, I know Gregory would have approved,” she
whispered to me in a low, rushed voice. “There are a lot of people
that believe certain things should be buried with the dead. I am of
the opinion certain things are needed to keep those left behind on
the path of life. I hope this will answer a lot of questions for you.”
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Then she reached into the window and placed a book in my hands.
In the same hushed whisper, she said, “It’s important for you to
know. He did love you. He most definitely loved you.”
I saw a mist in her eyes, and then she was off, back to the porch,
where she waited and waved until I could no longer see her in the
rearview mirror.
She had given me Gregory’s journal.
The journal spanned the year preceding our meeting, up until
our last night together. It contained entries of all our dates, and even
some earlier references to the times he had seen me at the office
before we had officially met at the company party. Gregory wrote of
his attraction to me, hesitancy approaching me, uncertain how to get
the attention of a woman he had only seen in the office lobby. He
spoke of his embarrassment when he did try to speak to me and I
was unresponsive to his efforts. He showed a genuine vulnerability
and modesty I had only occasionally glimpsed in him.
Until later in our relationship, the entries were mostly of doubt
and hope our relationship would continue to grow. It warmed my
heart that all along we had both been having the same degree of
hopefulness tempered by unease our relationship wouldn’t go any
further. I devoured each entry he had made during our relationship.
All except the final weeks. I couldn’t allow myself to read about how
he might have really felt about the pregnancy. I cringed, realizing if
he had written anything explicit, it meant his entire family also knew
the gravity of what he was dealing with right before he died.
I closed his journal as heavy tears literally flowed from my eyes
onto its cover. I gently lifted Joe off of my lap, and he didn’t even
wake when I settled him onto the couch cushions. I blew out the
dwindling flames in all the candles and hit the replay button on the
CD player, but dropped the sound a notch. Then I went back to the
couch, nuzzled up next to Joe, and cried myself to sleep.
I woke the next morning with a hazy concept in my mind.
Before I got up to take Joe outside, I reached for Gregory’s journal
from the coffee table and embraced it. As it lay against my heart, my
concept crystallized. I needed to redirect my energies to a new
purpose. My destiny wasn’t supposed to be grieving Gregory’s loss,
but to channel my grief into finishing the stories Gregory wasn’t able
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to complete. It was my destiny to complete what he couldn’t. To
write his stories. Or at least, to write the story of Gregory’s life. To
make his life have meaning to those who never got the chance to
know him.
It was a lofty calling. I didn’t have nearly his caliber of
technique. I wrestled with whether I could accomplish this tribute in
a style worthy of him.
As I changed into warm clothes to take Joe outside after his
feeding, I spontaneously took him for a walk. My mind was swirling
with the details of what it would take to do what my heart was
calling to me to do. Finishing Gregory’s manuscripts, searching for a
literary agent or publisher, getting it published seemed totally
intimidating. But a confidence brewed in me that made me feel it
was more than a possibility; it was a dream to be fulfilled. It had
begun as Gregory’s dream, but it was now within my power to see
his dream didn’t meet the same fate he had. It was devastating
enough to lose Gregory, but to also lose his talent was equally
unthinkable.
The last time I had thought of my favorite professor, Dr. Prouty,
was at the bookstore where Gregory and I had our first date. If I
could locate her, I knew she would have the advice I needed to
formulate a plan. I could picture her flattering words on my papers,
and once my mind went down that path, all the other comments
about my writing gushed into my head. It was a brilliant, sunny fall
day where I could have stayed outside all day, but I scooted Joe back
to the apartment and went straight to the phone. My father
answered on the fourth ring, sounding very alert for the early hour.
“Dad, any chance you kept any of my boxes from college?” I
asked him.
“Gee, honey, I’m not sure. Your mom pretty much handled all
of that stuff. I just lugged them up to the attic,” he said. “But I think I
saw a box with your name on it when I sold the place. I wasn’t sure
what was in it, but I am fairly sure it’s in the storage unit.”
“Would you be able to check for me?”
“Of course, I could probably get there this week,” he said.
“I’d really like to know sooner than that,” I replied.
He hesitated. It wasn’t like him.
“What’s the matter?” I asked.
“Well, I’m just not sure I can get there today, Worm.”
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He left the last word dangling, begging for another question
from me.
“What do you have going on today?”
More hesitation. Worry flipped in my heart.
“Dad?”
“Okay, okay. I have a date today,” he said with embarrassment.
“A date?” I asked, more than a little incredulous.
“Yes. A date,” he explained. “I figured it was time I tried to find
a little happiness in my final years. It just gets too damn lonely
puttering around this place.”
I was genuinely happy for him. “That’s great, Dad. I mean it.
Truly. That’s great. Tell me about her.”
He told me he had met her at his church. She had been
widowed around the same time we lost Mom, and they had both
been in the same grief group at their church. I could almost see him
blush on the other end of the phone when he described her to me.
Using phrases like “fetching” and “the best catch in town” showed
our generational differences, but it was obvious he had an
infatuation for her.
“Well, considering this important day, Dad, I can surely wait to
see if you can find my boxes.”
“What is it you are looking for?”
“It’s kind of a surprise. But I need to see if I can find any of my
old papers I wrote. I just need to brush up on my skills for
something I want to work on,” I explained.
He sounded intrigued. “Is that just your attempt to get me over
there today?” he laughed.
“No, not at all, Dad. Go. Enjoy your date. Don’t give this a
second thought today.” I hung up the phone. I would have never
thought both my dad and I would be starting a new phase of our
lives at the same point in time.
By the time David’s flight was scheduled to land later that day,
I had outlined my goals and ways I knew I could accomplish
completing Gregory’s stories. An unpredicted, powerful storm had
rolled in over the Rockies that whipped the snow sideways outside
my window. The phone rang, and I was comforted to hear David’s
voice. He was just getting off the jet way and hadn’t even set foot on
the concourse yet, but wanted to come see me.
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Certain he had seen the wicked storm on their descent, I told
him he was welcome to come over, but I was worried about the
storm even with the short distance between our places.
David replied his trip had felt too long and he really felt the
need to see me, no matter what the weather had planned.
“Even before you see Viking?” I asked.
“Yes. Even before I see Viking. He’s in good hands with the pet
sitter,” he replied. “Besides, you kiss much better than he does.”
With just a caution for him to drive carefully in the blinding
snow, I hung up the phone as my eagerness to see him swelled. It
was over an hour later when I opened the door to find David
bundled up tightly, with a dusting of white flakes prominent against
his deep ashy brown hair and even a few frozen specks on his
eyelashes. I was overjoyed to see him, not realizing until that
moment how much I had missed him. We embraced and kissed in
the doorway. Joe attempted a swift escape through our legs, but the
minute his perky ears felt the rugged wind, he scuttled back inside to
his warm, cushy bed.
I had so much to tell David, but he looked exhausted from
traveling. I boiled some water for tea as he shared his experiences
from his trip. I was bursting to tell him my news, but it wasn’t an
appropriate time to spring my new ambitions on him with only a
few of the details worked out, so I avoided the topic and let him
carry the conversation. It was late when he finally motioned to leave,
and I was reluctant to see him go.
Sending him out into the stormy night brought back painful
recollections I couldn’t shake. He acted oddly when I asked him to
call me when he got home, but he agreed. He turned back one last
time before he walked down the porch stairs, as if to ask me
something, but then waved goodnight instead. I closed the door,
pressing my eyes closed to banish the image that so eerily paralleled
the last time I said good-bye to Gregory.
I had kept the blinds wide open as I tried to fall asleep. The
snow was falling more gently by then, large flakes floating down,
their brilliant white reflecting through the window in a soft haze. I
dozed for an hour at a time, but rose a few times to check the depth
of the snow piling up outside. Each time I got out of bed, Joe lifted
his tiny head, eyes and tail alert, until I slipped back under the
covers. Then he would bury his impish nose under his paws and fall
back into whispery snores.
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Exhausted from my sporadic sleep, the glimmering pink and
blue hues of the sunrise drifted in and out of view as my heavy
eyelids refused to sleep. David had called me when he got home, as I
had asked, to assure he was safe, but the nightmare of what
happened in the past continued to intrude.
David called the next morning refreshed, not realizing the panic
he erased from my heart to hear his voice again. We hadn’t made
plans for the day, but the mounds of snow on the ground meant it
would be a quiet day inside. He refused to let me attempt the short
drive to his house and arrived shortly after we hung up with a snow
shovel to clear my walks. As we shuffled toward him on the snowy
sidewalk, Joe romped forward, but yelped when he toppled and
sank into a snow bank like an anchor. David swiftly scooped him up
and Joe’s wild eyes turned gleeful as he showed his gratitude with
sloppy sideway licks. We were becoming a little family.
Later that day, comfortable by the roaring fire, I chose the best
moment I could find to tell David about my visit to Gregory’s grave
and the unexpected introduction to his family. Waiting this long had
already felt deceptive. David listened intently as I told him about the
pages and pages of Gregory’s incredible work concealed and
incomplete for the past ten years.
I didn’t even have to convince him that Gregory’s writing was
incredibly powerful and meaningful and needed to find an audience.
Without even saying it, David guessed I had made the decision to
resurrect Gregory’s work.
“What’s it going to take?” he asked without even a hint of
skepticism.
“It could take a year, maybe more, if I try to do it along with
everything else.” I saw David’s surprised reaction, so I switched to
my backup plan. “But, if I take a leave from work and just focus on
the writing, it could take just a few months.”
That seemed a little more realistic to him. But he hadn’t heard
the big bombshell yet.
“I need to be there, though, in California. It’s the only place I
feel like I can do my best work, without the distractions here.
Colorado just doesn’t hold the same energy for me. I need to be back
in Marin. Where it all began and ended.”
David’s showed his first expression of concern. I realized what I
had said and how I had said it. “Does this all bother you? My
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obsession with the past?” I asked him, unsure if I could bear hearing
the answer, knowing I was stirring his jealousy.
“You would think it would, but oddly enough, no. It doesn’t. I
have confidence in our relationship. I just worry about the economics
of this. You’ve worked so hard to get back on your feet,” he said.
“Plus, I can’t imagine being separated from you for that long.”
“I’d come back to see you as often as I could. And, you’d come
visit me too.”
He nodded, not terribly interested in my assessment.
“I’m worried about it too, but this is a calling I just can’t
ignore,” I said, embarrassed I didn’t have a solution to finance this
radical decision and it was going to introduce a new element of
challenge to our relationship.
David stood up and moved closer to the fire. He studied the
flickering colors for an unbearable length of time. Finally he said,
“I’ve always known what an important role this man has played in
your life. I never really understood how to define it. I guess now I
realize that he’s your inspiration.” The words came with the first tint
of envy that I had ever heard from him. He continued, “Of course, I
would much rather know I was your inspiration.”
“Oh, but you are,” I said as I joined David by the fire. I reached
up and took his face in my hands, looking directly into his hurting
eyes. “There is no one who has come into my life all this time who
has inspired me to make something more of myself the way that you
have. My dad helped me get a footing, but you…David…you are the
person who has made me realize I have so much more potential. The
work at the magazine is definitely something to pay the bills, but
finishing these stories, this is something I could truly take pride in.”
Tears crept into the corners of my eyes. “I haven’t grieved well,
David. I’ve cried, and I‘ve ached, but I’ve been unproductive in my
grief, actually counterproductive. My whole life nearly collapsed
around me because I was so irresponsible and so lost. This new
direction is redemption for me. It will be all the hard work I have
ignored, all my grief needs an outlet like this.”
“I need some time to process this,” he said.
I understood, but didn’t like it. Choosing between David and
completing Gregory’s work was a dilemma I didn’t want to face.
But, what my heart was calling to me to do came with a clarity of my
future I’d never experienced before. I’d hoped David would be by
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my side as I ventured down that frightening path. I wasn’t sure I
could even go that direction without him.
We tried to finish our day together, but the burden of my
decision shrouded it. David seemed disconnected, so I asked him if
we wanted to have some time alone. He didn’t object, and my heart
sank. As we said goodnight on my porch, I wanted some glimpse of
optimism from him that this was a crossroad we could work through
together. But he just kissed my forehead and said he would call me
in a few days.
Joe and I moped around the house after he left. I was so grateful
for my little dog who was so instinctually in tune with my every
emotion. I worried about the outcome with David, but I picked up
the book Gregory had bought for me the night of our first date,
knowing deep in my soul it was his way of showing me my new
direction in life. I opened to the page where he had written his
inscription:
May this book inspire you to fulfill all of your dreams.
It wasn’t the book that inspired me; it was Gregory. My
inspiration to write came from his life, his example, his influence.
My father and David guided me to fulfill all the potential I held
within me, but Gregory was still the source of all that was necessary
to accomplish this new direction for myself.
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Page 251
hapter
The flight was tortuous. We had a lengthy delay getting out of
Denver, caused by a fast-moving snowstorm. It had taken me ten
long years to get to this point, and every moment that prolonged it
made it an even more cruel irony. Greater anxiousness seeped into
me, fears I could be making another crucial mistake in my life. The
turbulence gaining altitude over the Rockies was always unsettling,
but in the darkness, with the tail wing lights illuminating the
whipping snowflakes, I was fearful. My fingers gripped the
armrests, and I braced my head against the seat while my heart
frantically beat and my stomach lurched with each tremble of the jet.
I normally loved the sight of falling snow, even blizzards. Gentle
snows calmed me. Raging blizzards reminded me of so many days
as a child, home with my parents and sisters, spontaneous days of
togetherness and warmth. I focused on those thoughts to ease my
trepidation. Eventually the flight smoothed out, the whipping snow
was replaced by stony blackness, and my fears dissolved.
As the flight carried me across the distance, I was both excited
and melancholy. I clutched the book Gregory had bought for me.
Weathered and worn from the years of clutching it to my heart as the
one tangible, meaningful and powerful memento I had from my
relationship with Gregory; it had become the ticket to my own
destiny. I hadn’t returned to San Francisco since I was demoted
years before, so the trip was tainted with a bitter edge. It was easier
to ignore the painful past I had experienced there, to forget how I
had nearly derailed my life because of what had happened to me
there.
But that was before; now it was time for the reckoning, to no
longer ignore the grief, but to open myself up to it fully. Grief is an
individual journey, but the one commonality is that the death of
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someone you love is life-altering. Some pass through it well; some
fail miserably. Some get stuck at various stages in their grief; others,
like me, teeter on the edge of letting their grief destroy their life. It’s
a matter of how you allow it to alter you—for the worse or for the
better. I had taken the path of letting Gregory’s death alter me for the
worst. It was time to correct my course and redirect for the better.
The world was going to be less special with the loss of Gregory. I
was one of the few people who could continue his writing and
therefore his legacy, a realization far too long coming. If I let
Gregory’s life and memory die with him, then what was left of him?
When the plane touched down, I made my way to the baggage
claim. I had never flown into San Francisco, only out. It gave me a
pinch in my heart, remembering driving away from Constance’s,
watching the welcoming home that had turned into a cave of sorrow
fade from my view in the narrow window of the shuttle van.
I considered calling Constance but I would have deal with that
act of contrition at a later time, a better time. I needed to concentrate
on what I had set out to accomplish. And more importantly, it would
need my full attention to rebuild that friendship, and it would have
to be a spectacular apology.
I flipped open my cell phone and dialed the first person I knew
who would be excited to know I had arrived safely.
“I’m here!” I sang into the phone.
“That’s wonderful, sweetheart,” my dad said. “I’m very proud
of you, you know.”
“I know, Dad. That means a lot to me. And thanks for finding
my college papers. Reading all of my professor’s comments about
my writing skills was just what I needed to convince me that this
isn’t just some escapade I’m chasing. I know I am the only person
who can bring Gregory’s words to life again.”
“You can, Worm. I believe in you.” Then he said, “And so does
David.”
“I know.” I smiled into the phone. “He’ll be here next week, as
long as Joe doesn’t frustrate him and make him come sooner.”
I added, “Sorry you’re saddled with watching our dogs for the
next few months.”
“Happy to do it, darling daughter,” he said. “Annie is great
around the dogs.”
I smiled, happy his new relationship was still going strong.
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I had been so afraid that my new aspiration was going to create
a chasm with David we wouldn’t be able to bridge, but after a week
of contemplation, he had shown up at my doorstep. Without a word,
he pulled me into his arms and kissed me deeply. “I want you to
find your destiny,” he’d whispered into my ear.
“I already have,” I replied. “It won’t be my destiny if I do it
without you.”
Rather than take the perimeter highways, I drove right into San
Francisco. The Golden Gate Bridge loomed in the distance, too far
away still to see its characteristic orange hue. The business district
was deserted on a Saturday but multiple re-routes to avoid
construction left me lost trying to find my old office building.
Finally, I parked in a lot, knowing I could walk to the it faster
than trying to figure out the maze of detours. When I finally
approached the building, an athletically dressed man came out of the
revolving doors. The lobby was still the primary entry point to get to
the health club. I slipped into the rotating entryway into the grand
lobby of the building. It was still a magnificent lobby, and even
though I expected it to be decorated for the holidays, I wasn’t
prepared for the melancholy it produced in my soul.
It had been ten years, but it was as if time had stood still. Lush
garland coiled around every column and railing in sight, thick with a
new palette of deep purple and silver ribbons. The massive tree was
adorned in spirals and spikes of glittering lilac and pewter orbs. I
walked up toward the tree, past the familiar coffee bar that was
shuttered and silent. I stood below the tree, feeling so insignificant.
The magazine had flourished without me. Business went on there as
if I had never been an integral part of it. I wondered if Richard, Jill,
or, God forbid, Cyndi still worked there.
I stared up at the tree, the place very near where I had sat just
ten years before, unknowing how that night would change my life
forever. Many bleak days had occurred since that magical night, but
the few wonderful memories were what I clutched on to now.
At the top of the tree was a luminous star. I stood and stared at
it, mesmerized. Closing my eyes, I pictured Gregory, clad in his
tuxedo tails and brilliant red bow tie and cummerbund. The image
came easily to me, and when I opened my eyes, all the lights on the
tree were glowing. I looked around, but didn’t see anyone who
would have tripped the switch. Just as I turned back, the tree lights
had gone dark again.
ANNA RAE ABERLE
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I drove across the Golden Gate Bridge, but I didn’t exit onto
Bridgeway Boulevard. My return was already fraught with tough
emotions. I drove through Tiburon, searching for the residential
hotel David had found for me. So much had changed in ten years,
but certain landmarks remained untouched, a bittersweet welcome
back.
Once I found the hotel, I turned back west to Highway 101 to
buy some things I would need during my stay, before checking in.
Making space in the small rental car around my luggage was a
challenge. Once back at the hotel, I needed a bellman to help me load
the luggage cart and navigate it up to the room. After he showed me
the amenities of the room, on his way out the door, he asked,
“Would you like a wake-up call, ma’am?”
I would, I told him.
“What time would be good for you?” he asked.
“That depends,” I replied. “What time do you expect the
sunrise?”
He smiled and nodded. “I’ll take care of it, ma’am.”
The light outside the window was starting to dim, so instead of
unpacking, I changed into a warmer sweater and grabbed my coat,
gloves, and hat. I walked down to the end of Tiburon Boulevard,
where the roundabout led you either back into Tiburon or the
opposite direction onto Paradise Drive. It seemed an odd irony that
my hotel was nearly squarely set on the origination point of Paradise
Drive. If I were to follow it along toward the north side of the
peninsula, I would see Constance’s house and my beloved cottage.
But it was still better left for another time.
I walked along the pathway as the sunset gleamed in the sky. It
was, unfortunately, entirely unspectacular, as the sky just turned a
hazy, illegible blue and then turned only a ghastly shade of deep
gray. The old, bitter chill from arctic waters was blowing in from the
north skies, so I went back to the hotel and ordered a small dinner to
be sent up.
For the first time in years, I didn’t dread the morning light. I
slept restfully, yet ready to be alert when the wake-up call intruded
into the sterile room. I needed some time before sunrise to make it to
my destination.
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When the wake-up call came, I dressed quickly and paid little
attention to the details I might on any normal morning. At that time
of the morning, I would normally be groggy and disoriented, much
different than the experience I felt that day. I was awake. I was alive.
I didn’t feel the pain of the gift that had been so rudely swiped away
from the world when Gregory died.
As I drove to my destination, my mind was a whirlwind. It was
now in my power to take control of my life, to take action, to find
meaning out of the tragedy of Gregory’s death. I wanted more for
Gregory than for his life to be just another sad story of loss. I had
failed him, and I had failed myself. I didn’t have the power to bring
Gregory back to life; I only had the power to bring his writing to
back to life. His creations that so eloquently showed his talent and
true potential. I only prayed that I could complete it in a style
worthy of attaching his name to it.
It was still dark when I pulled the car off to the edge of the road,
but when I opened the trunk, the tiny bulb gave me enough light to
grab my bag and the collapsible chair. I walked carefully so I
wouldn’t slip down the embankment. Gregory wasn’t there to catch
me as he had been when he first introduced me to this romantic spot.
As I settled into my rickety chair, despite the multiple layers of
clothes and gloves, I was able to open his journal. As the first glow of
the sun peeked over the horizon, I read the final pages of his entries
from the week before he died.
I allowed the content of his words to flow into the crevices of
my heart. A wave of knowledge to fill the void of never knowing
what was in his mind those final days of his life. I ceremoniously
opened my notebook to put pen to the paper and began to write the
first words about Gregory’s life. It had become my destiny to give
Gregory a new life, if only through his writing, so that others would
come to know the man who died too soon, too swiftly, and continue
his legacy.
Page 256
BOOK CLUBDISCUSSION QUESTIONS
1 There are multiple scenes that provide foreshadowing.
Choose 2 and discuss how they work to enhance the story.
Why does the author intertwine climate and environments
with major events in the story? How do they alter the story?
The contrast between morning and evening, sunrise and
sunset are major themes throughout the book. Describe how
this contrast affects Alicia and changes throughout the story.
Discuss what factors contribute to Alicia not being able to
overcome her grief.
Discuss the various addictions Alicia has at different phases
of her life.
How does Alicia’s father and Dr. Dexter help her overcome
her dysfunctional grieving?
Some aspects of Alicia and Gregory’s relationship are very
detailed and other times not; when they first make love, the
contents of Gregory’s journal, what does this tell you about
the central character?
Alicia is very secretive about her life. Discuss how this
works against her.
What role does Constance play in Alicia’s life? What causes
Alicia to destroy their friendship?
Is there an alternate conclusion that would work for this
book or discuss ways this story could carry forward.
Page 257
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Anna Rae Aberle was born in Rapid City, South
Dakota and received her literary education in Colorado.
Her passion for writing and reading quality literature
was acquired at an early age. While Anna Rae has used
her writing skills nearly the entire span of her
professional career, this is her first work of fiction. This
debut novel, I Prefer the Sunrise, is the first of many works
Anna Rae will complete, however, it resonates deeply for
her being based upon events in her own life. Anna Rae
has begun work on her second title, but is seriously
considering a sequel to I Prefer the Sunrise, based on
requests from her readers. Anna Rae currently resides in
Colorado, but travels the country coast to coast in her
career pursuits. She shares daily doses of laughter with
her husband and their blended family of canine
companions.