Rooms

by Rubart, James L.

  “So you don’t believe in the WHMS Rule?” He moved over to the refrigerator and grabbed two Diet Cokes.

  “You lost me.”

  “The When Harry Met Sally Rule. That guys and girls can’t be friends. Never saw the movie?”

  “Yes, I saw it. I never wanted to believe it, but I will confess most times it’s true.”

  “You know this from personal experience?”

  “All through high school and college, I’d ask the guy if we were just friends, he’d say ‘oh yes, friends only,’ and in the end he’d reluctantly confess he’d been secretly in love with me the whole time.”

  “It’s the way guys are made,” Micah confessed. “They promise they want to be buds only, but they tend to be attracted to the girl from the beginning.”

  “So where does that leave us?”

  Micah fell back against the pantry doors as if shot and laughed. “I see what you mean about the tact thing.”

  “You mean the direct thing?”

  “Yeah, that’s what I meant.” He walked over to her, poured their Cokes, and sat on the bar stool next to her.

  “So where does that leave us?” The laughter in her eyes disappeared.

  “Simple. We’re not friends.”

  “Really. Then please provide the definition of our relationship.”

  Micah pretended to take out a calculator and punch imaginary numbers into it. After a few seconds he looked up from under his eyebrows. “This is our third meeting so we’re good acquaintances. I have a girlfriend back home. If a man has a girlfriend and the person of the opposite sex is informed of it within the first four meetings, he’s allowed to develop a strictly platonic relationship. Since I let you know this in only our third meeting, we’re ahead of schedule and off to an extremely good start.”

  Did he have a girlfriend back home? No. Julie had made it pretty clear they were finished. He might as well admit it. But not out loud.

  “Cheers then. To a fruitful acquaintanceship.” She winked and raised her glass.

  “Is that a word?”

  “As of now, yes.”

  They smacked their glasses together just hard enough for a smattering of pop to spill over the sides.

  Micah suggested they go out on the deck. Walking beside Sarah across the tan carpet, he easily fell into her rhythm and it stirred something inside he couldn’t put a name to. It wasn’t infatuation or a crush. He wouldn’t even call it romantic. Natural was the best word to describe it.

  “How ’bout you? Have a boyfriend?”

  “No.”

  She looked at him without elaboration, so he asked the obvious follow-up question. “How long have you been broken up?”

  “Why do you think it was recent?” She poked him in the side.

  “A girl as beautiful and smart as you is simply not allowed to be single for more than six months. Eight months max. The rules won’t allow it.”

  “Really?” Sarah folded her arms across her chest. “And what do the rules say about telling an acquaintance she is beautiful when the said prevaricator of the line has a girlfriend named Julie?”

  “The judges allow it providing three things: It has to be true, it has to be said without any romantic atmosphere or intent clouding the issue, and finally, beautiful has to be said within the context of explaining a mystery, like why you aren’t with anyone right now. Not just said on its own for the sake of saying it,” Micah said.

  “Ah. Thanks for the clarification. At least we met two of the requirements.”

  “No prospects on the horizon?”

  “I’ve sworn off guys.” She pulled her hair behind her ears. “I’m done with boyfriends for a long, long time. Finished. Over.” A defiant look filled her eyes, and she didn’t smile.

  Micah tried to laugh, but it died on his lips as Sarah turned away. He didn’t expect such a vehement statement from her. Why send him the message with such force?

  Silence stretched to an awkward twenty seconds.

  “Uh, is that a subject you’d like to elaborate on?”

  “Not even the hint of a chance.” Sarah walked over to the far end of the deck and leaned against the railing.

  Micah waited a few seconds before easing over to her. “Listen, dinner won’t be done for another fifteen minutes, how ’bout a tour of the house?”

  She faced him, smiled, and the somber feeling lingering in the air vanished. “I’d love to, but what if we took a little walk on he beach instead?”

  “Sure, tide’s out, great time for a short walk.”

  ||||||||

  The aroma of Cornish game hen and garlic mashed potatoes greeted them as they walked back inside ten minutes later. Pear and walnuts over greens was first, followed by artichokes with melted butter for dipping, angel hair pasta, and the hen. They topped the meal off with banana bread.

  “Impressive,” Sarah said with the hint of a tease.

  “Hey, c’mon now. Maybe I didn’t make the banana bread. Or the pasta. Or the salad. But I melted the butter and got the hen right.”

  “It was a compliment. Seriously. Most guys our age wouldn’t have a clue about putting on a meal like this.”

  “Well, thanks, but really I just got lucky. I haven’t done a lot of cooking, but I’ve been practicing. One of those ‘I’ll do it someday’ things. Being down here is someday, I guess.”

  “And how long are you staying ‘down here’?”

  “That is indeed the $64 million-dollar question.”

  They walked into the great room toward the fireplace. He motioned to the couch, but she chose the floor in front of the river rock so he did the same and built a fire while they talked.

  “I’m working from down here for a while. Seattle is my permanent home, so I go back every couple of weeks to make sure things are running smoothly.”

  Their conversation turned to high school, college, sports they’d played, and favorite movies. They talked for an hour before Micah realized he’d been doing most of the telling.

  “You’re good.” He laid his arm across his chest and bowed his head a little.

  “At what?”

  “Asking questions.”

  Sarah smiled but didn’t comment.

  “I’ve been talking. You have not been talking.”

  “Is that bad?” she said.

  “No, I’d just like to know more about your history. I already know my own.”

  “But then how mysterious would I be?” She grinned.

  Micah watched the flames of the fire shift and dance as he thought about the woman sitting beside him. She was smart and beautiful. Playful. And she was mysterious. Sure of herself but not in a cocky way. She knew who she was with no pretension. During most first dates—yes, he admitted it was a date—he watched women play a role, presenting as perfect a package as possible. He’d done the same.

  Even Julie and he still jockeyed and positioned themselves. For power. For protection. Not this time. Sarah had somehow disarmed him, and he’d told more about himself than he wanted to. She’d told almost nothing about herself. Why the swearing off guys? What happened to her?

  The glow of the fire streaked her walnut hair with lines of gold, and he let himself go to merely enjoy the moment.

  After dessert they walked out onto the deck, and a rare coastal treat greeted them: the stars. Not all. Just a few breaks in the clouds. But enough diamonds on black canvas to be captivating.

  Sarah glanced back to the house. “I can see why he gave you the home. It reminds me of you.”

  “What?”

  She gave him a light smile, as if it were obvious.

  “I’ll admit whoever decorated this place found my style.”

  “It’s more than style. It feels like you.”

  His heart agreed, but his mind wouldn’t accept it. This wasn’t his place. “I don’t know. Maybe. But like I said, this stuff isn’t mine.”

  “You don’t have to own something for it to be you. Haven’t you ever gone into a gallery and seen a pa
inting and said ‘that’s me’? Or had a piece of music capture something deep down you didn’t even know was there? You realize it’s always been part of you; you’ve just never heard it before.”

  Micah stared at her. She had just unearthed a place in his heart that said “you’re home.” Maybe he’d known it all along. Maybe that was the reason he hadn’t gotten around to selling the house.

  He turned away. “Yeah, I know the feeling.” He didn’t add he was having the feeling right then. “Midnight beach walk?” It was late, but the words slipped out of his mouth before he could stop them. He saw conflict in her eyes.

  Sarah shook her head. “Next time.”

  At her car Micah thanked her for coming. She returned the sentiment with her eyes. He stared at the road long after the bright red of her taillights disappeared down Highway 101.

  She made him feel like he was ripping through the water on a slalom water ski on a Seattle summer morning, when the shade was cool but the sun would warm him in minutes; when the lightest of breezes darted through the air like sparrows playing tag; when the smell of western red cedar made him want to climb Mount Rainier or soak in a sunset over the Olympic Mountains.

  Not exactly platonic emotions.

  As he ambled back to his house, kicking a small round stone like it was a soccer ball, he tried to guess why she’d turned her back on romance. A broken heart? Too many Prince Dudleys?

  And how was she able to see how well the house fit him? He hadn’t even seen it himself to the extent she had. But she was right. Sarah seemed to have more answers than he did. He’d listen to any insight she had about the house since ol’ Archie hadn’t seen fit to leave him any hints.

  Wait.

  Archie.

  The letters!

  He jogged toward the house.

  Finally he’d get some answers. The letters were sure to give him at least a few clues he didn’t have to be Hercule Poirot to figure out.

  CHAPTER 14

  Micah stepped inside and strode over to the coat closet door. He yanked it open and pulled the stack down from the closet shelf. Yes! Answers. Right here. Right now.

  A faded business card stuck out from under the first envelope—Archie’s. He pulled it out. A handwritten note was on the back.

  Dear Micah,

  Congratulations on finding the letters. Of course if Chris followed my instructions, it shouldn’t have been too difficult. There is only one guideline. Read them in order and only read one letter per week. Only one.

  Your great-uncle,

  Archie

  Micah shook his head and smiled. The guy never failed to fascinate. The envelopes were numbered from 1 to 19 in the lower right-hand corner, almost too small to read. He trotted over to his overstuffed chair that faced the picture windows, settled in, and opened the first letter.

  October 20, 1990

  Dear Micah,

  Our first letter together in the house has filled me with joy and anticipation. Some of my correspondence will be lengthy; at other times the letters will be much shorter. I dare hope all will contain encouragement for your journey now begun.

  As I mentioned in my introductory letter, you will have to make a choice to face your past or not. And facing your past means more than just dealing with the memory of your mother’s passing. There is more to deal with surrounding her death. Much more.

  More? No, he wouldn’t go there again. Ever. Hadn’t he finished that? But he couldn’t stop shards of the memory from bursting into his mind—his dad standing over him, screaming over and over, “What have you done to her, Micah? What have you done?”

  Micah slammed the memory back into its dark corner. Get a grip! He pounded his leg with his fist. “C’mon, Archie I need something with a little more hope than that.”

  I expect by this point you have begun to understand what the home is. If not, then I am afraid I will be spilling a bit of the proverbial beans.

  The structure is far more than a home and will make a significant impact on your future if you allow it to. The home is a part of you, and you are part of it to a greater degree than you can imagine. I designed it this way with help from a close friend. His singular ability and assistance makes this home extraordinary.

  Along with the healing of your heart and the trials that will entail, I pray you find rest as well. The Cannon Beach section of the Oregon Coast has always been a place of peace. I trust it still is. I counsel you to soak in the music of the ocean and the accents of the seagulls crying, and the hope of finding a sand dollar still whole.

  Your great-uncle,

  Archie

  P.S. Remember, Micah, one letter per week. I look forward to being together again in seven days.

  Micah set the letter on the armrest, tilted his head back, and let out a small groan. Answers? Archie raised more questions than he’d answered. The house is part of him? What’s that supposed to mean? Face more than just reliving his mom’s death? What, the memory room wasn’t enough?

  Maybe the second letter would help. He smacked its edge into the palm of his hand three times in a quick cadence. One a week? Sorry. He wasn’t waiting another seven days for the next cryptic letter about the mansion and its secrets.

  He slipped his forefinger under the top flap of the second envelope and stopped. Instantly he was seven years old again, sneaking out and opening his presents on Christmas Eve while the rest of his family was snug in bed. Shrugging off the feeling of guilt, he ripped open the envelope. He wasn’t a kid anymore.

  He sucked in a quick breath, held it, and yanked out the letter. The paper scraping free sounded like firecrackers. He looked around the room and assured himself it was okay.

  October 24, 1990

  Micah,

  I am in a bit of a quandary with regard to how I should start this next letter or what type of forewarning I should attempt to impress upon you before you read the following words. For no matter how complete my effort may be, you will likely be a mite traumatized at the message it contains.

  Before I reach the portion of the letter I believe will elicit this reaction, let me assure you I am just an ordinary man; by the time you read these letters, I will likely have been with my Lord Jesus for many years.

  Micah put down the letter. He wasn’t in the mood to be shocked. He’d had enough surprises since coming to Cannon Beach to last a year. But how could he stop reading?

  I know you are reading this letter before I’ve intended you to. Please do not do this. Stay true to the schedule I instructed of one letter per week. I realize this might be difficult to adhere to. You will want to race ahead and receive answers to your questions right now. It is a strength God has given to you—to strive forward strongly in all that you do—but in this case, it is a weakness and a hindrance to truth.

  Please allow the process of being in this home to take the time it needs, that you need.

  Archie

  Micah’s heart jackhammered. He thought little could surprise him after what he’d been through already, but this was over the top. How could a man back in 1990 know he would disregard his request and open the second letter early? There was no logical explanation. A chill swept through the room, and the ticking of the grandfather clock at the top of the spiral staircase sounded like gunshots.

  He looked down at envelope number three. It mocked him—dared him—to open it.

  It slid out smoothly till a corner of the envelope caught on the twine that held the bundle of letters together. He wrenched it free and ripped it open.

  October 25, 1990

  Dear Micah,

  Stick with the order.

  Archie

  Heat flooded Micah’s body. He picked up letter number four and tore at it in sheer defiance. But his hands trembled, and it took thirty seconds before he read it. When his eyes dropped to the page his fear was confirmed.

  October 26, 1990

  Dear Micah,

  One per week. Trust me.

  Archie

  Micah closed his ey
es and took deep breaths. In. Out. This was beyond strange. First the shrine room, then the painting room, then the memory room, now this. How? The man’s been dead for twelve years!

  Sweat squiggled down his forehead. He glanced at his watch. One in the morning. Too late to call Rick.

  He was out of control again.

  Once more Archie showed his penchant for the strange twist—not only with the house but now with the letters.

  He rubbed his temples hard. What was the point of living in one of Rod Serling’s nightmares? Archie’s letters were the straw, he was the camel, and he didn’t need any crushed vertebrae. He should sell the place and get back to reality.

  ||||||||

  A week later Micah strode toward his deck with letter number five grasped in his left hand. His right held his cedar letter opener like a sword, and his heart pounded.

  He wanted to read the letter outside. For all he knew, reading it would suck him into another psychotic room. This way he could at least process the letter before facing any new, unwanted expedition. He knew God could not be put into the tidy box Micah had tried to squeeze Him into these past six or seven years. And this house certainly seemed to be the field of battle where that truth would be played out. So it was with expectation of the extraordinary that he opened the letter.