Beyond the Storm (9780758276995)

by Pittman, Joseph

  “Can I ask, did you get to hold her?”

  “Hold her, yes, I got to hold her, briefly. Feed her, no. She just lay so silent in my arms, an angel in every sense of the word. I touched heaven when I touched her. I never felt closer to another person, and I still never have.”

  “You named her, of course?”

  She nodded, this time with a smile. “Yes. Elizabeth Grace.”

  Adam could find no more words, ask no more questions. In his mind he pictured a very young, lost, and innocent Vanessa Massey, alone and scared in a foreign country, dealing with the complications of a teenage pregnancy she’d endured by herself. Giving birth, crying out in the hospital room when she began to realize that all was not right with the baby, with the birth. He could picture her holding the still form, envisioning endless tears as she embraced a baby who would never smile, never cry, never find laughter in the simplest of things.

  At last, he said, “Elizabeth Grace. That’s the most beautiful name ever.”

  “Adam . . . I’m sorry,” she said, still stroking his cheek. She leaned in, and despite the tears that still fell from her eyes, from his, she kissed him gently, tenderly. It was the last thing he wanted, but he knew he couldn’t reject her, not during such an intimate exchange. He responded in kind, grateful for the sweet gesture, the offer of comfort. The connection they’d forged earlier still existed between them. What had happened today had served to strengthen a bond that kept them tethered, even if neither had known about why it was happening. Now, with the unexpected news of lovely Elizabeth Grace’s existence, they were forever linked. By life and by death, by tragedy, and yes, by grace.

  “So, what happens next?” he asked.

  “I don’t understand, what are you asking?”

  “All day, it’s been one trip down memory lane after another. We can’t keep dwelling on the past . . . eventually tomorrow will come, and with its arrival all of our secrets will be laid bare. Think about it. We’ve reminisced, we’ve remembered. We’ve had our reunion, unlikely as it is, and like all such events, they end with promises made and seldom kept, we just move on. We go back to our own lives and tuck these memories in some place we don’t need ready access to. If not for the car accident, our day here, would you have ever told me about the baby? Would we even have had time to talk amidst the swirl of classmates to finally get to know one another? Would we have explored the possibility that our encounters—both at Mercer Point and in New York, that they really did mean something beyond foolish youth or being drunk? Maybe the world was telling us something that neither of us was ready to hear.”

  “What’s this—more of your past-life stuff, Adam? Destiny?”

  “No, that’s just ridiculous speculation. I can’t explain why this is happening.”

  “I can. It’s why I came back. Why I wanted to go to the reunion.”

  “To tell me all of this?”

  She nodded.

  “But how could you be assured I’d be there?”

  “I couldn’t be. I just knew I had to try.”

  “See, destiny at work again.”

  “Adam, you’ve really got to stop with all this crazy talk,” she said, looking suddenly to the sky, as if seeking from hidden stars some kind of acknowledgment. Life didn’t work the way Adam implied, it held no magic other than the kind you conjured inside yourself. Drive, energy, ambition, power, the world fed off of you, not the other way around. But the sky provided neither agreement nor disagreement, leaving only darkness swirling all around them, cocooned beneath clouds. Like the world had trapped them in this farmhouse, allowing no other soul able to sneak through. It was only the two of them, and at last there lay no further secrets. The past existed where it should, buried inside them.

  “Vanessa, do you believe in second chances?”

  “Second chances? How about third? Four . . . what does it matter? We make mistakes, we have to move on from them or they’ll define us . . . consume us. So, no, I don’t believe in second chances. What I know is that I betrayed you—betrayed your faith in me, in myself as well. I’ll heal, because I always do. Or at least, that’s what I tell myself. What about you? Have I just given, then taken away, something you always wanted?”

  She got up from the porch, pacing back and forth, her words more directed at the universe than at Adam. Still, he felt the brunt, he absorbed them as he listened.

  “Who knows, maybe my entire life has just been about hiding—hiding from real truths, from fabrication, from what could have been and what might have been. Things happen in life, sometimes awful things, and you just have to move on. When you start to think in absolutes—or worse, in hope—you’re set up for nothing but disappointment. I don’t get why you’re still being so nice to me. I don’t deserve it. You should be screaming at me, telling me how much I screwed up your life. That stupid prom, why did people think it was so important? Like your world would crumble if no one asked you and you stayed home. Sometimes disappointment is a good thing, it’s the kind of thing that makes you stronger. Adam, I took a part of you away, and worse still—I didn’t even give you a choice in the matter. I made up your mind for you . . . about the baby. I set you free when you didn’t even know you were trapped. You should hate me, and instead you’re . . . what? Reminding me of Valentine’s Day cards you left for me? Finding wine bottles that don’t exist, only to seduce me beside a roaring fire? Make up your mind—which deity do you want to be? Cupid? Sling your arrow at me and I fall prey to your charms? Or maybe you’re Apollo, waiting for the sun to come out so you can take me for a ride on your chariot. Show me the world from Mount Olympus? Myths, that’s all they are. I’m mortal, an imperfect being. There’s nothing special inside this body, no power to take us beyond today, just one crazy, mixed-up mess. Happy fucking twentieth reunion.”

  Adam still said nothing. He wasn’t convinced she was finished, but the way she had just punched the column of the porch, he gazed upward to make sure the structure wasn’t going to collapse on them. Just then Vanessa turned to him, eyeing him with newfound suspicion. She couldn’t find another word to say, though. Adam was convinced she’d used them all up.

  “You done?” he asked.

  “I . . .” she said, seemingly wanting to vent still but realizing the futility of the situation. Was she even angry at him—for being nice, for understanding? Or was she finally just letting it all out, the emotions and the frustrations and the failed dreams, railing at the world for its cruel twists and unfair turns? At last, she let out the deepest breath, and rather than the porch dropping on them, Vanessa did, plopping onto the wood boards with exhaustion.

  “Yeah, I’m done.”

  “Good. Can we focus on what’s important now?”

  “Which is what?”

  “Us. Now. There’s nothing we can do about the past, and at the moment we don’t seem to be able to do much of anything about the future. All that exists is this moment. So why not try and make the best of it.”

  “Adam, what are you getting at? Where is this going? What is ‘the best’?”

  “Everything is out in the open—at least, I think so.”

  She nodded. “No more secrets.”

  “Good. So let’s just take the rest of this rare time-out and enjoy ourselves. I don’t know about you, but I can wait for whatever morning brings. I’ll take this night every night. I’ll take tonight right now.” He paused to stare directly into her emerald eyes; he thought he could see his reflection in her irises. No, more than just his body, he thought he could see the elusive thing called a soul and it was staring back at him, letting him know how right the time was. “Let me take you upstairs. I want to be with you, fully, completely . . . it’s time that we . . .”

  She put a lone finger to his expressive lips, silencing them. “Time that we made love? That we truly shared ourselves, finally free from the past?”

  “You read my mind.”

  “You opened yourself to me. I get it, Adam. I get you.”

  “You need
to get us.”

  He took her hand as he rose from his seat on the porch. With one easy motion he brought her close against his body. He felt the heat melt their bodies. He kissed her hard as he embraced her. All around them the night came alive, streaks of moonlight suddenly peeking from behind those persistent storm clouds, the chirping of crickets filling the air with their endless song, the wind answering back with its own swirling effects. They held each other as time stood still. The world was theirs and only theirs.

  Adam began to lead her back inside when suddenly her arms enveloped herself.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I’m cold.”

  “I’ll keep you warm, that’s a promise.”

  “No, no, you don’t understand. Adam, this chill, it’s been with me all day. Even with the fireplace blazing and the hot shower, the fainting spell I experienced inside the cupola, our dash through the cornfields where I was nearly sweating, all of this warmth and still I haven’t shaken the cold I’ve felt since the accident. Why? What’s wrong with me?”

  “I’m no doctor, but maybe it’s a mild case of shock. Not just from the accident, but from all the secrets you’ve had bottled up inside you,” he said. “You’ve released them. So now come to bed, let the covers, let me . . . chase the cold night away. Together we’ll find warmth before the morning sun provides it.”

  “You’re quite the romantic, Adam Blackburn.”

  “You’re quite the reason to be, Vanessa Massey.”

  He opened the screen door, escorting her inside. They paused at the base of the stairs, looking upward. Like this was one final climb, one last obstacle.

  “I feel weird. It’s not our house, not our bedroom.”

  Adam shook his head. “For tonight, this house is our home. Perhaps it’s where we would have lived, you and me and Elizabeth Grace, had life worked out differently. We might have been happy here, instead of spending our entire lives running from truth, seeking out something we never ultimately wanted. And I’m not talking about regrets, because those are for fools. Our lives have happened as they have because that’s how it was meant to be. Our friend out there, Mr. Aidan Barton, I think he would approve. He’s been very giving so far today, letting us use his house to finally realize the connection that exists between us.” He paused, his hand caressing her cheek. “Tonight is meant to be as well. So come upstairs—to our bed, where we’ll exist on our own plane and in our own time.”

  “Adam Blackburn?”

  “Uh-oh, I sense hesitancy in your voice.”

  She nodded. “Right now, as much as I’d follow you to the edge of the earth and probably beyond . . . I think we’re forgetting one thing. But you have only yourself to blame, you brought him up and reminded me—about Aidan Barton. Remember when I said that you both shared the same initials? Well, I’m curious about something that until just now had eluded me.”

  “What’s that?”

  “The name Venture.”

  “The name on the letters.”

  “Venture. Vanessa. Don’t you get it? She had the same first initial as me,” she said. “So it’s got me thinking. What’s Venture’s last name?”

  The crackle of wood from the fire lit orange sparks against the walls, illuminating their faces upon the walls. The illusion was powerful, as though they were no longer two but four, the shadows having moved in to be with the people inside the house.

  “The letters,” Vanessa said. “We forgot all about the letters.”

  Adam looked at her and she stared right back.

  They were on the same page, and soon would be reading the same pages.

  And the race was back on, this time the two of them chasing each other up to the cupola. The shadows followed, curious also to learn the decades-old secrets awaiting to be unsealed.

  Feeling already like intruders inside this house, what they were about to do seemed like an even deeper betrayal, a violation of an implied trust. They had eaten the food and drank the wine, they’d showered, worn their clothes. All because it was available to them and fed their needs. But now, just because they had stumbled upon the old trunk filled with unread letters, did that give them permission to open them? The contents of the unread letters were none of their business, so why then was Vanessa sitting on the edge of the top step of the cupola, watching with anticipation as Adam approached the letters with nothing short of determination. He lifted the lid of the old trunk, a discernable squeak filling the space of the small room.

  “Ready?” he asked.

  “I’m not sure.”

  He looked at her, a knowing look on his face. He felt it too. The sense that they were overstepping their bounds. But he then looked back at the letters as momentary indecision hung in the thick air. “You give the word and I can seal this old trunk up again, and we can return downstairs and forget we ever found it. We can let Aidan’s secrets stay buried for another day, for another person to find them.”

  That was the practical thing to do. But nothing about this day fit that description. They had gone with a flow as natural as that found on the lake, questioning their predicament but not understanding it. And so it was with the trunk, the letters. They had to go for it, there was no turning back now. “No, I think we’re supposed to read them.”

  Adam nodded. “I agree. Okay, so no more delays.”

  From inside the trunk he withdrew a bundle of letters and handed them over to Vanessa. They were from the top of the pile, the most recent.

  “Go ahead, you first,” he said.

  Swallowing hard, Vanessa ran a finger across the thick parchment of the envelope before pulling at the red ribbon that held them intact, releasing the letters to the floor in a fanlike display. Spread before her, she noticed they were all of the same quality of stationery, the same word . . . name . . . written across the middle in the same script. Venture, they stated, all with an underlined flourish. Vanessa looked up for confirmation from Adam that they were indeed going ahead with this. His eyes said it all, he was eager to know the contents, and she had to imagine that her eyes spoke the same language.

  “Here goes,” she said.

  She took hold of the top letter, turning it over to reveal flaps perfectly sealed. Sliding a nail underneath, she moved slowly across the length of the envelope, not wanting to tear it to shreds. A letter opener would have been easier. But at last the flap lifted, revealing two sheets of paper inside. She unfolded them to reveal the same flowing script that adorned the front of each envelope. Aidan had used some kind of quill pen, the ink jet-black, his handwriting strong and determined, yet with the natural flow of a true romantic. She cleared her throat, and began to read.

  “My dearest Venture . . .”

  The letter took just minutes to read, and as the words filtered into the room, filling it, all of nature grew quiet, the reverence clear. Aidan’s story to his “dearest” Venture was simple and profound, but his love for her was unmistakable, unmatched. He claimed this was his last letter to her, knowing the end was near for him. He spoke of the day in which the sea had claimed her, and how he had spent the remainder of his life devoted to her memory, never once forgetting her. He was confident of being reunited with her, if not today or tomorrow but someday.

  “My God, Adam, he was so earnest. So certain.”

  “That’s love. That’s faith.”

  “To think, he spent years—his whole life—writing these letters to her, ending with this one where he believed they were to be reunited in death. How he must have felt, how his emotions must have overtaken him. Look at the date at the top of this final letter, August 18th. Written the day before he died. And the determination behind his words, he knew he was going to die, yet he remained unafraid.”

  Silence descended upon them as Vanessa thought of what that day must have been like. The old man at his writing desk, his hand wobbly from age but somehow resilient when the time came to jot down his final thoughts to Venture. When she looked up, she noticed that Adam had gotten up from the floor and w
as now peering out the window. No doubt at Aidan’s grave down below.

  “Adam, what a privilege this is, finding these letters.”

  She saw him nod gently toward Aidan’s grave. A touch of respect, an acknowledgment that his stories, his dreams . . . they were safe in their hands. “If you don’t mind, sir, we’d like to know more about you, and about Venture, and about what you meant to each other.”

  The wind gave up no hint of objection to his request, and the single bulb illuminating the cupola remained lit. Nature was quiet, power on their side. Vanessa retrieved another letter from the pile, again gently opening its seal. She read silently this time before opening the next, again reading Aidan’s expressive words to herself. Adam did not interrupt, waiting patiently for Vanessa. At last, after having read through seven letters, she set them down, a stack of loving remembrances. She gazed up.

  “Every letter begins with the same greeting: ‘My dearest Venture . . .’ But Adam, it’s how Aidan signed off, his salutation. It’s either a strange coincidence, or it’s just . . . I don’t know—freaky?”

  “We’ve done freaky today. What’s one more instance? What does it say?”

  “Forever yours.”

  Even after a day filled with strange moments and situations neither could explain, this had to be chief among the coincidences. She watched as visible surprise formed on his dry lips. Sitting down beside her, Adam picked up one letter, then another, not because he didn’t believe her but because he had to see them for himself. She was right, each letter ended with the phrase “Forever Yours.”

  “The prom,” he said.