by J. D. Robb
“When was the last time the three of us shopped like this?” Sidney asked, scooting—exhausted—into a high-backed booth in the restaurant where they’d stopped for a late lunch and a drink.
“So long ago I don’t remember.” Charlotte remembered perfectly.
“Well, I remember,” said Sue, her brown shoulder-length bob swinging as she got in on the other side. “It was my wedding. We were looking for bridesmaids’ shoes, and my cousin Loretta, who’s always trying to fart higher than her ass, was with us and would not even try on a shoe that didn’t have a four-inch heel and a three-figure price tag, and you said you couldn’t walk in four-inch heels, three was your limit, and Charlotte kept wandering around muttering ‘$250 for a pair of purple shoes that can’t be deducted.’ ”
“Wait.” Sidney picked up a menu but didn’t look at it. “Speaking of farting, wasn’t that the same day you found out that weird aunt of your mother’s, who you didn’t want to invite to your wedding because of her toxic flatulence problem, was, according to your mother, supposedly too sick to come to the wedding, so she insisted that it was safe to send her an invitation but who was, however, feeling very well and would be attending with her son, who, by the way, could power a windmill with his own noxious gases?”
“Yesss! I forgot about that. I remember I sent you off on your own and told you to pick out whatever shoes you wanted, I’d had it. And not only did Charlotte come back in about fifteen minutes, but she’d bought a pair of black loafers and told me no one would see them under her dress. I thought my head would explode.” They all laughed. “I vowed then and there that cars would fly before we shopped together again.”
Charlotte felt her cheeks burning and covered them with her hands. “I was such a dork. Why did you put up with me for so long?”
“You mean aside from the fact that you were the sweetest, most gentle and giving dork at McClure Middle School? I don’t know. Do you, Sidney?”
Sidney shrugged and glanced down at her menu, then up with a droll expression to keep the moment light. “Maybe because friends don’t give up on each other. You haven’t given up on me actually putting money in that savings account you made me open, have you?”
“No, but that reminds me—”
“NO!” they said together. “No job talk today.”
“And no kid talk. This is my afternoon off.” Sue tried to sound firm but there was nothing she liked better than talking about her children.
“Okay, then how about some juicy information on Mrs. Doctor Lacey Booth that I got directly from her aunt?”
Their ears twitched.
It wasn’t hard keeping busy, stuffing her head with the hundreds of things she wanted to do and see. There were moments, of course, when her mind wandered—she glanced up once and saw Mel sitting in a chair across the room, then again leaning against a fence up the street and again riding the down escalator as she rode up. He smiled and gave a little wave; she smiled back, felt the pang of desire and looked away . . . I think that I shall never see . . .
She finally went out with Henry Chancellor’s wife’s uncle’s sister’s nephew, or whatever, Axel Burton, who was quite possibly the nicest man to ever leave Chicago. They liked each other very much but . . . there was no spark, no mating of souls, no magic.
He was, however, interested in scuba diving, so they took lessons together, driving all the way over to Alki Beach in West Seattle three evenings a week.
“We were crazy doing this in November.” Her teeth chattered as she pulled on her thick down jacket, apple green with pink and yellow piping. They were past the pool work and actually swimming off Alki Beach in wet suits, which kept them fairly warm, until they took them off. “Why didn’t we wait until summer?”
“Umm.” He shivered, his knit cap pulled down over his wet hair. “The fewer off-season students get more one-on-one with the instructor? More underwater time? We were too eager? We’re nuts?”
“That’s the one.” She stuffed her damp hair inside her cap and gave him a calculating look. He was only a little taller than she, maybe six foot, a nice, plain-looking man in his early thirties, with true brown hair and kind green eyes behind frameless glasses.
“What?” He held the door open for her.
“Well, don’t take this wrong, it doesn’t mean anything except that I don’t know that many single people, but . . .” As she passed through the door, she saw Mel leaning against a pickup truck on the other side of the parking lot. He held out both hands as if to say it wasn’t his fault she was missing him. She turned to Axel. “Well, I was thinking of trying speed dating and I didn’t want to go alone. I thought if we went together it might not be . . .”
“As humiliating?”
“No, not humiliating just . . . less awkward. Who knows who we’ll meet? And if you do meet someone nice and want to go out afterward for coffee or, you know, whatever, I can take a taxi home. Or vice versa.”
It could happen.
They tried it twice to be fair, and to be fair, they didn’t want to try it again.
She spent Thanksgiving with Sue Butterfield and her young family, her parents and her grandfather, who fell asleep during dessert and tipped whipped cream and pumpkin pie into his lap.
Christmas Eve she and Mrs. Kludinski made reservations and ate dinner in the Space Needle, which she hadn’t done since she was seven or eight years old. She gave more than she received and that was okay. She had the spirit.
The mid-winter months were bleak and lonely. It rained nearly every day, turned to ice at night. She had only to look out her window to see Mel looking entirely pimplike, but warm, in a full-length red-fox fur—faux, naturally. Generally he sat on the bus bench on the corner, reading a newspaper until he felt her looking at him. He’d look up askance; did she want him to come up?
I think that I shall never see . . .
One night, he knocked on her door.
“You can’t come in, Mel; you know that,” she said, watching him through the peephole, enjoying the sight of him, too much.
“Just for tonight. I’ll leave in the morning.”
“I’m going to Cancun.” This was news to her, too.
“Mexico?”
“A winter vacation before tax season hits full bloom.” She wasn’t used to living spontaneously; her hands were shaking. “I can take in the beach or go to the Mayan ruins. Boating. Oh, scuba!” Her enthusiasm soared. “Warm water scuba.”
She was gone for ten days.
She was sorry to see him waiting at the airport for her, but she walked right by him, and for the rest of February, all of March and the first fifteen days of April, she was too busy to look more than two feet in front of her.
And then it was spring again.
Ten
“Thank you for coming,” the bride said, extending her white-gloved hand and smiling ear to ear. “And thank you so much for your help, Charlotte.”
“It was my pleasure and I’m glad things worked out well for you. Everything is so beautiful.” She couldn’t remember being more sincere about anything.
Her simple suggestion to hold the small wedding in Parsons Garden was a minimal contribution to the charming, almost fairy-tale scene around them. The small garden that had once belonged to the Parsons family was in full bloom with large snow-white magnolia blossoms; bright yellow and pale pink flowers flourished on the Cornelian dogwood and the Japanese weeping cherry. Spring plantings and thick shrubs and the neatly trimmed walk surrounded the carpet of deep green grass where sixty-odd chairs were quietly being rearranged in small groups around tables for a light reception. The string trio that had been playing softly since she stepped through the small iron gate lent an air of magic that hung like a canopy over the garden.
“And I don’t think I’ve ever seen a prettier bride.”
“Me, either,” the groom said, beaming at both women as Charlotte gave the bride a gentle embrace then moved on to give him one meant for a bear.
“I’m so happy f
or you, Axel.”
“I’m just glad Uncle Henry isn’t too disappointed. If Janet hadn’t charmed his socks off, I’d be in big trouble right now.”
“That’s not true. All he ever wanted was for you to be happy. And you so obviously are, I’ll bet he’s delighted. In fact, I think I’ll go over right now and make sure he is.”
Henry was, of course, thrilled and felt the need to drag her from one cluster of guests to another introducing her as his brilliant accountant—a term that attested to her sharp mind but did little to invoke the image of a sparkling personality. The Chancellor family was a jolly bunch; Janet’s family was welcoming and kind, and the afternoon wore on in weather that seemed special ordered, clear and bright.
In an unguarded moment of weakness she caught a whiff of fir and fresh snow and turned, expecting to face Mel, there in a crowd of people.
He was nowhere in sight. She missed him.
A small lattice-covered bench located on a shady curve of the path beckoned to her—well, beckoned her sore feet anyway. She wasn’t the only one who’d worn heels to stand on the grass but . . . what had she been thinking?
She closed her eyes for just a moment, felt the sun on her face, listened to the birds in the bushes . . . heard the bushes rustling, twigs snapping and opened her eyes again.
From behind the rhododendron on her right a small boy of three or four crawled on his hands and knees—his mother was going to kill him—in his white shirt and khaki dress pants. He grinned when he saw her and didn’t exactly stick his tongue out at her but opened his mouth and let his tongue hang out like a—
“Woof.” He crawled closer. “Woof. Woof. Woof.”
“Oh my, what a sweet little puppy you are,” she said, sticking her hand toward him to see if he’d come to her. “Can I pet you?”
“Woof. Woof.” He came close to her leg and sat back on his legs, putting his front paws on her thigh. He let her smooth down his bowl-shaped cap of chestnut-colored hair, remove a leaf and pat him lightly on the back. “Woof.”
“Do you have a name, little doggy?”
“Woof. Charlie.”
“Charlie is a great name. How old are you, Charlie?”
“Woof. Woof.” He held up four fingers on his right paw, looking around.
“How many is that?” She started to count.
“Woof. Four.”
“Four. And where is your keeper, you nice little dog?”
“Woof,” he said, turning his head. “Hi, Dad. I’m a dog. Woof. Woof.”
“So I see.” A tall man stepped out of the shadows as he spoke to the boy, but he didn’t take his eyes off Charlotte’s face as she turned to look up at him.
He had the same thick, rich chestnut-colored hair as his son in a much shorter, hipper version of the comb-it-forward style his son had. He, too, wore a white shirt and khakis but he’d added a tie and carried a brown tweed sport jacket in his left hand. He had a strong chin and his lower lip was fuller than his top; shaded glasses covered his eyes . . . but it didn’t really matter. She knew him immediately.
“Hi.” She felt as if she’d greeted him a million times before, yet her throat was tight and her voice sounded strange. She felt tense, her hands trembled in her lap.
“Hello.” He seemed to suddenly remember his glasses and removed them. His eyes were so dark they looked like holes with no bottoms . . . she toppled straight into them. “I hope he’s not bothering you. Actually, I know he is . . . I’m hoping you don’t mind.”
She reached down blindly to pet the boy. “I don’t. I like dogs.”
They continued to stare at one another for one full minute before he motioned for permission to sit beside her. She smiled and tried to move to give him more room but the boy leaned against her right leg and she didn’t get far. The man’s slacks brushed against her leg when he sat; she made a minute adjustment with her thigh and felt the warmth of his skin beneath two thin layers of fabric. Her heart kicked once then flew, lighter than air.
A second later it stopped dead when it finally occurred to her that where there was a small boy and a daddy there was generally a mommy as well.
“All. . . Although maybe I shouldn’t encourage him. His mother may not appreciate him getting so dirty.”
He wasn’t fooled. He knew what she was asking.
“His mother died three years ago and I don’t think even she could have kept him clean for more then six minutes at a time.” His stare was intense but she didn’t mind, she couldn’t look away either. “Friend of the bride or the groom?”
“Groom. You?”
“The bride is my cousin.” So that made him, what, her client Henry’s wife’s ex-sister-in-law’s nephew’s new wife’s cousin . . . and his son? Small world.
“The groom’s my scuba partner.”
“You dive?”
She nodded. “Do you?”
“Since I was a teenager but I . . . haven’t for a while. I’ve been a little busy.”
“Woof.” Charlie crawled several feet away, bent his head down to pick something invisible up in his mouth, crawled back and dropped it at Charlotte’s feet. “Woof. Throw my ball.”
“Please,” his father said automatically.
“Please. Woof.”
She picked the ball up, threw it and Charlie chased it . . . and his dad was still staring at her when she turned back. “I bet you’ve been busy. He’s a cute little boy.”
He nodded, his mind on something else. He frowned briefly, then decided to tell her.
“You know I feel like I ought to know your name but I don’t.”
“Charlotte.”
“It suits you. I mean, I think it does. It feels like it should. I know this is going to sound strange—or like some pick-up line or something—but I feel like I know you. Have we met before? I’m Sam Rutherford.”
“I don’t think so.” But she knew exactly how he felt as something deep inside snapped and let go, became tranquil and easy, spreading a sense of rightness through her soul. “What do you do?”
“I’m an associate professor of the Romantics and Victorian literature at U Dub.” A University of Washington professor, of poetry and heartfelt literature—Do not swoon! Don’t do it! “That’s Keats and Shelley, Tennyson and Browning, those guys.”
“I know.” And she’d bet every class he taught was packed full of girls. “I’m an accountant.” That sounded so dumb she almost slapped her forehead. Her mind was exploding with ideas, but it was so hard to think. “I own my own business.”
In her peripheral vision she knew Charlie had returned with the make-believe ball and, seeing he’d lost her full attention, dropped it a few feet away. He lifted his head, looked over his shoulder as if watching another toss and went to fetch it once more.
“If we haven’t met before, it’s good to meet you now, Sam Rutherford.”
There wasn’t a doubt in her mind that what she saw in his face was her future. Happy, earnest, genuine, solid and real—he had an honest face, a trustworthy face. He glanced down, saw her hands and took one in his to examine it as if he’d never seen one before . . . or maybe to determine if it was strong enough to hold his heart. Finally, he wove his fingers between hers and held them with his other hand.
“How would you like to walk over to Kerry Park and see a spectacular view of the Sound? It’s only a few blocks away, an easy walk even in those shoes.”
“I know where it is.” She stood and he came up with her. “Can we bring the dog along?”
“That was my plan. If we wear him out with a walk I can put him to bed early, get my niece to sit with him and then we can go out for a drink, or dinner . . . or anything.”
She smiled her approval of his plan and he turned to Charlie, who was still on all fours, humming an oddly familiar tune. “Hey, Big Guy, wanna go for a walk?”
“Woof. Woof.”
Big Guy. An endearment. She imagined him calling her honey or sweetie or dear and her stomach didn’t hiss and spit. She’d ans
wer to his sugar and darling. . . but not babe. There was just something about babe that rubbed her wrong.
She put out her free hand hoping Charlie would give her one of his. “Can I hold your leash, little doggie, so you don’t get lost?”
“Woof.” He shook his head. “My boy has my leash.”
“Your boy?”
“My new friend.” He turned his head and looked pointedly into thin air. “He’s four like me.”
She looked at Sam who shrugged to say you-know-kids and grinned at his son. Her skin prickled.
“What did you name your new friend?” Sam asked him, playing along.
Charlie looked confused. “I didn’t name him nothing. He gots a name already.”
“Then please introduce us.” He started them down the path toward the gate. She felt him hesitate at her side and turned her head in time to catch him sniffing the air. “Do you smell that?”
She inhaled deeply, smelled nothing and took a wild guess. “Christmas?”
“Yes!” He was confused and amazed.
“That’s Mel,” said Charlie, proud of his pal. “He smells like cookies, doesn’t he, Dad?”
Sam sniffed again, moved his head about to catch a second whiff but it was gone—his adult defenses were up. Charlotte had a sudden, brilliant thought and squatted down to the boy’s level; her smile was casual and cunning.
“Charlie, you know how your long name is really Charles Rutherford?” He nodded. “What’s Mel’s long name? Do you know?”
Charlie giggled. “Sure. It’s dumb. He sang me the song to it. He says it sticks in your head and you can’t get rid of it.”
“What is it?”
“Mellow Lemon Yellow.”
“Mellow Yellow?”
“Donovan,” said Sam, identifying the song immediately. He laughed. “Your pal’s a hippie, Big Guy.”
“What’s a hippie?”
Epilogue
“Careful now, Big Guy.”
“Keep your eyes closed tight, Mom.”
“I will, Charlie. Just don’t walk me into another wall. I’ll break my nose.”
She felt Sam’s strong arm across her lower back and knew she had nothing more to worry about. Charlie was so excited his six-year-old fingers could barely hold still long enough to keep a good grip on hers as he led her up the stairs and down the hall toward his bedroom.