“You do?”
She nods. “I heard from George. Yesterday.”
Celia walks in and opens the paper on the kitchen table. “You’re kidding. But I guess I’m not surprised. In the article, he’s only mentioned as the one who returned Grace. There’s nothing about all the other stuff, except that he couldn’t be reached for comment. So they arrested the others but didn’t charge George?”
“Apparently not. And I’m not sure why, but I guess they have their reasons.” Amy sits with her friend and they glance at the front page.
“Hey,” Celia says, reaching over and moving a strand of hair off her face. “You okay?”
“Oh Celia. It’s just so … I don’t know. Surreal. Detective Hayes left me a couple messages, too.”
“What did he say?”
Amy checks her watch. “I didn’t call him back yet, it’s early. I was going to, right before I leave for New Hampshire.”
“Well did George say how it happened?”
“I didn’t actually talk to him either. He sent an email with a few details, something about working with his attorney to turn in the others. I suppose it’ll all come out sooner or later. But this past week must’ve been intense.”
“Amy?”
“No, no, no.” She stands and rinses out her coffee cup at the sink. “Don’t go there, Cee.”
“Why not?” She drops her voice and turns in her chair, facing Amy. “Come on, George was telling you the truth.”
“Two months too late.”
“Yeah, but the guy stood by you all summer, trying to handle everything. Do you think you’ll go see him?”
“I don’t know.”
“He does love you. And you told me you felt the same at one time.”
“That was before. And I really can’t think about it today. I’m on my way to get Grace, so that’s that.” She dries out the cup and stacks it in another on the table. “Would you mind if I keep the newspaper? My parents would like to see it, I’m sure.”
“Absolutely.” Celia stands and hugs her. “And you think about things, okay? Take long walks with your daughter, get some fresh air up there.” She holds Amy at arm’s length. “You’ll be okay, don’t worry.”
Amy’s not so sure. Already her mind is in two places. Her suitcase is packed and she is ready to go. But she hesitates and makes another cup of coffee. Alone, she sits with the newspaper and reads the article slowly, looking up every few sentences as she correlates the story to what George told her, his hair matted with rain, the kitchen dark, the rainfall pouring outside that evening. Afterward she washes the coffee cup, the spoons and the tabletop. The red plaid dishtowel hangs squarely over a chair back. Each chair is pushed neatly to the table.
And still, still. She opens the refrigerator and empties the top two shelves onto the counter: milk, orange juice, bottled water, butter, yogurts. After scrubbing those two shelves with soapy dishwater, she bends to the lower shelf and empties the vegetable bins. No one’s refrigerator sparkles more than hers. No refrigerated food is more meticulously organized.
And no matter what she does, no matter how many times she wipes off the counter, the tears don’t stop. No matter that she retrieves the wilting pink rose from the kitchen trash can, clips the bent stem short and stands the flower in the two white coffee cups stacked on the blue table. No matter that she sets her overnight bag at the back door. No matter that she sits herself at that blue table, at all its memories, and lets herself have a good cry. Because there’s no way she can get on the highway north with these darn tears blurring her vision. Like a watercolor painting, those tears blur everything: the blue of the table becomes the marsh water behind a little cottage; the white cups, the swans swimming past; the pale pink rose, the sea sky at dusk one quiet June evening. The sea, the sea. He gave them that. She pulls the plaid dishtowel off the chair and presses it into her sobs, presses until it is enough.
Until she deciphers the true blend of one summer’s days.
Until the scent of damp rain comes to her, pressed against her face, and she realizes why she hasn’t washed the dishtowel all week.
Thirty-four
RATHER THAN FEELING LIKE HE’S been away, it feels, walking into The Main Course the morning after Nate’s funeral, like a place George once visited. He turns the key in the lock. A lifetime has passed since he’s last been here. It’s like turning the pages in an old photo album: touching the glass showcases, straightening the spice rack, remembering when. In the back room, he switches on the light and sees that Dean set up the new grinder in place of the old one heaved into the dumpster out back. The knives are razor sharp, the meat cases gleaming. In his office, a backlog of paperwork waits, enough to keep him holed up for several hours, away from the reporters sure to come looking for him. Now that the news of Nate’s involvement in the heist broke, there’ll be no keeping them away as they try to snag an exclusive.
Reacquainting with his life, George sits at his desk and thumbs through orders and invoices. So this is what it will be now, his life. It’s only a reflection of what used to be; the difference is there, nearly indecipherable, quiet. No one will see it but him. All he has, all he amounts to, is each day as it comes.
He starts a pot of coffee but leaves the stereo off. Somehow it doesn’t seem right to listen to music. Maybe that characterizes what he lost, the desire to whistle along, to hum the songs and hear the melodies. When he puts on his black apron and goes into the walk-in cooler to check on the inventory, only the drone of the refrigeration sounds in the insulated space. It seems to take up all the air around him.
* * *
Sunlight glances off the large window, fooling the eye with harsh shadows and glare. The reflections in the window are so pure, they are difficult to decipher from reality. As she lifts off her sunglasses, Amy realizes one reflection is of herself. It had first looked like the shadow of someone on the other side of the glass. A customer, maybe, ordering cutlets or fish. But when she squints and raises her hand to her eyes, shielding the sunlight, her reflection disappears and she sees it is dark inside The Main Course. No customers are having a coffee yet, waiting for their porterhouse steaks to be wrapped. A Closed sign hangs in the door. It is enough for her breath to catch, seeing the empty shop. It just isn’t right, how lonely it looks, how lonely she feels, how desperately she wants to be inside that shop. Life is so open to interpretation, with its deceptions and all its illusions. Her eyes look through the glass at the details with an aching familiarity, as though for a place she once visited. Maybe he’s behind the counter, working a substantial slicing knife through a cut of meat. She steps sideways, looking, but the lights are off and she turns away.
It is early still, not yet nine o’clock at Sycamore Square. Amy glances around at the other specialty stores: a clock shop with decorative potted shrubs at the doorway, a clothing boutique and a coffee shop. None are open yet. Her fingers tighten their hold on a small gift bag and she turns around, back toward The Main Course, mad at herself more than anything that it came to this. That she didn’t listen to George, that she didn’t see past her own immense pain. That she contributed at all to his life’s undoing is unbearable. And if it’s so unbearable, well, it wouldn’t hurt so much if it wasn’t twisted up in love. She stands right against the door, cupping her eyes, the bag hanging beside her face, and sees a light deep inside.
Her eyes close for one moment, a moment when she feels the sun on her shoulders, hears summer birdsong and distant traffic, a moment when life comes rushing back. She presses her ear to the glass door, listening intently for muffled Sinatra, for a whistle, for the drone of a voice on the telephone. Her hand presses against her other ear, blocking out everything but a sign of George.
Someone is in the back; lights are on. She can see that now through the glare of morning sunlight. Her hand reaches for the handle and she rattles the door, hard, all the while staring, watching for a motion in the shadows, for George looking up from his work.
“George,
” she says, breathless, and shakes the door again. When no one comes, she knocks hard, rapping her knuckles on the glass. “George!” Her hand burns, her knuckles too, from her insistent knocking. She shifts over to the display window, trying to see in at a better angle. The gift bag falls to the ground when she cups her face against the glass. “Come on,” she whispers. “Damn it.” She scoops up the bag and returns to the door in one quick motion, grabs the handle and shakes it, tears streaking her face. “George! Please God, open the door.”
* * *
George pauses in the freezer while immediately considering if it is his imagination. He’s craved her voice often enough in the past week, wanting to hear it on the phone, wanting it to call after him as he gets into his pickup, wanting to look up in a grocery store aisle or at a gas station pump and see her. He knows, too, what it feels like to turn at a desire so strong and find nothing. It’s something he’ll have to live with, have to get used to, especially with the reporters coming around. The immunity agreement keeps his name out of the crime, but Nate’s is front and center and already they’re looking for him, knocking on the door, wanting his take on his brother’s story. What else could it be? Maybe it’s better if they don’t even know he’s here.
The knocking comes again—once more, strong—then it is quiet. Dean will have to fend off the media when he opens up later. He closes the freezer and heads into the dimness of the shop. Okay, he imagined hearing her call his name all the past week, turning at illusions, squinting into shadows. It’s almost expected now. So routine is good. Checking stock and placing orders will get him through the morning.
But there is an unmistakable difference between imagination and reality, and the distinction is right in front of him.
Amy stands pressed against the door, her hands cupping her eyes, straining to see into the dark shop. When he takes a step, still in shadow but watching her closely, tears are visible on her face. Her eyes search the room and when he moves closer, they stop on him.
George he sees her mouth say, a slow hopeful smile coming as she knocks rapidly on the glass and rises on her toes, as though he can’t see her there. She wears a long, brown crochet sundress and clutches a gift bag. “George,” she says louder with another quick few raps. He still doesn’t stir. She is smiling. She is okay. The sun shines from behind her, casting her in silhouette. He relishes these quiet seconds he thought would never, ever come.
She reaches over and twists the door handle. “Please open up?” Her voice is muffled through the glass.
In a few quick steps he is at the door, turning the lock and pushing it open. Her demeanor changes then; she moves back and presses the folds of her dress. Their eyes lock while everything between them wavers, and finally dissipates. He asks her, gently, “Was that you making all that noise?”
“Oh George,” she says quietly. “Can I talk to you? Please?”
“Come on,” he says, stepping back to let her through and locking the door behind her. “Would you like to sit down? I’ll get you a coffee.”
She shakes her head quickly. “No. I don’t think so, George. George.”
When he turns back, she stands near the register, in front of the case of cheeses, the shelf of fresh bakery bread nearly empty beside her. Both her hands clutch the bag and she is looking straight at him. What confuses him, though, is the way she keeps saying his name.
“I read the paper this morning,” Amy begins. “George.”
“Listen, are you sure you don’t want to sit?”
“I’m sure.”
It is amazing how when you know someone, really know someone, every nuance carries a message: the way one blinks, shifts their gaze, sets their mouth. Talk almost becomes unnecessary. He sees this in a moment when her expression changes, when though she seems glad to be here, there is something else. All week he wanted to only know that she was safe. There were so many small things, just this, he’d pray, just this, that he’d wanted in the past days. But mostly to know that she and Grace were okay. Now, in this moment, he wonders if they are, if something happened.
“What’s wrong, Amy?” he asks.
She turns away, takes a step, and turns back, facing him.
“Is Grace okay?” he asks, waiting for her to talk. To say why she’s here.
Amy nods. “Are you staying here, George? Keeping the shop?”
“For now,” he answers, folding his arms across his chest. “I really haven’t thought too far ahead. Haven’t made any plans. Why?”
“Oh,” she says, wiping her cheek with the back of her hand. “I was afraid you’d leave.”
George watches her eyes move from him, looking vaguely past him to the outdoors. “Is there a reason I shouldn’t?” he asks.
Slowly, her gaze comes back to him and she is serious. “So many. I’d like to think, well. It hasn’t been easy this summer. For either of us.”
“No, it hasn’t.”
“And I’d like to think that it takes time to understand everything. More time. Somehow.”
“Amy.”
“I know. It’s just that I came here not knowing what I would say, George. And, well, what I’m trying to say is that I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry, Amy. This was the farthest thing from being your fault.”
“No.” She walks closer, shifting the gift bag she is holding from one hand to the other. Her dress clings in soft brown folds. “That’s not what I mean. What I’m saying is that I’m sorry for not believing you, that day in my kitchen, George. In the rain.” She presses a lock of blonde hair behind her ear and watches him intently. “I’m sorry that I didn’t accept what you were saying, what you did.”
He doesn’t move. They stand facing each other in shadow. Pedestrians pass by outside the door. The telephone rings. Still George doesn’t move, waiting with arms crossed, waiting to see if this is goodbye, if this is condolences, if this is gratitude.
“I’m sorry that I denied your life like that, denied how you cared for me. Because that’s what I did. I denied your actual life when I turned away and I was wrong.” She looks up with a long breath. “Okay,” she whispers. “Okay.” She takes a step closer. “So here’s the deal.” Her hand reaches out and takes his. “If you can find some way to forgive me for not seeing through all my troubles to you, to you keeping me afloat all summer, and holding me up, well if you can somehow forgive me that, I wonder if we can have another chance.”
“A chance.”
“Yes.” She pulls her hand away. “Here.” She opens the bag she’d been holding and lifts out a book. “It’s an agenda planner. You know. A date book.” She offers it to him hesitantly and he takes it, watching her. “You promised me something a few weeks ago, remember?”
He shakes his head no, glancing down at the date book. It is bound in black leather and is new, its pages stiff.
“It’s a gift. I wanted to bring you something. Something for you. I didn’t have time to wrap it, I’m sorry. Open it,” she whispers. “To the marked page.”
George flips the black date book to the page where she left a bookmark. It falls open to the week ahead of them. The days are blank except for Thursday, where her easy cursive fills the square. It’s noted for seven o’clock, something about the movies and popcorn and lemonade. He looks up at her silently.
“Turn the page,” she whispers again.
He does and sees a week later that Friday evening is blocked off, filled with plans for take-out seafood on the river, watching the boats while the moon comes up. When he hears her voice, soft, his throat tightens.
“You promised me an easy summer. We were going to date, remember? To take our time, kind of lazy-like. When you told me that, that we should just date, well I really liked that. It was so old-fashioned and I’d like to do that, George. Oh God, I miss you so much.”
He glances at the leather planner and then looks back at her. “You know it’s not over yet for me. Part of the deal was that I won’t be prosecuted, but a lot comes
with that. My attorney says we have a long road ahead and it won’t be easy.”
“We’ll get through it,” she answers, stepping closer. “You and me. Just like we did the first time around. Except this time, well, this time we’re in control. Please, George.”
He looks at her still, then down at the planner and thumbs through a few pages. A week is blocked off in late August. “What’s this?” he asks, his voice hoarse.
She tries to smile, he sees that, smile against tears and sadness and hope. “I was being a little presumptuous. But if maybe you could get away from all this for a few days, well Grace and I are free that week. She really loved that beach of yours, George. That pretty boardwalk, her seashells. That little cottage at Stony Point. You told me once that you could explain everything. In good time, I think was how you put it, in good time walking on the beach, in the sweet salt air. And I want to hear it, there, at your cottage at the sea, the whole story.” She pauses, the room quiet. “So that’s the deal. I love you, George. I trust you, always have.”
George sets the date book on the counter and walks to her. With one arm, he hugs her, pressing a kiss to the side of her head. She backs up a little, to see him and he touches his forehead to hers. “Are you asking me out, Amy?”
She nods and he leans closer, kissing her once, lightly, before embracing her in his arms and kissing her again, once, twice, each kiss deeper and sweeter with the promise it holds.
“I didn’t know if you’d be here,” she says, smiling and crying at once when he pulls back. “I’m sorry, so sorry if I hurt you.”
“Don’t be sorry.” His thumb catches a tear. “It’s all done. It’ll be okay.”
“I missed you, missed everything we had.”
“Shh.” George tips his head down and kisses her again. “I missed you, too. And Grace. She’s okay?”
“She’s beautiful. She’s really coming along.”
“How about you?” he asks, lifting her chin with his finger, drawing it across her cheek, touching her gold hoop earring, her neck, her hair. “Are you okay?”
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