“My ex-husband asked me to give up my home to him and his new girlfriend—”
“Ouch—that bites. Your ex is a dipstick.”
An expression from the past. But I like it. “Should I have said yes? I mean, am I selfish for trying to hold on to that place, or at least get the amount I deserve from the sale?” I’m talking half to myself, but Connor is listening intently.
“I’m sorry you’re losing a home that meant so much to you,” he says gently.
Suddenly I can hardly breathe. The tears are rising all over again. “And my sister is getting married. I spent all day with her and my mother, shopping for wedding saris.”
“A wedding. Wow. Sad occasion.”
I wipe my damp eyes. “I know weddings are supposed to be joyful, but I’m divorced. I guess I’m sad.”
“It’s okay to be sad. I’ve had many sad moments of my own.”
“Oh? Were you married?”
“Once, a long time ago. Seems like another life.”
“What happened? Were you divorced?”
He frowns briefly. “She passed away.” His tone is tight, final.
“I’m sorry.”
He nods slightly, and I decide not to press. I pretend to pick lint off my shirt. “I’m a wreck. I must look awful.”
“No, you’re beautiful.” Somehow, when he says this, I feel beautiful, too. “I’ve been looking forward to seeing you all week.”
“I wasn’t sure you would come.” My fingers are trembling, my heart racing. My body is embarking on a journey of its own. I clasp my hands together in front of me. “I should go upstairs and change—”
“I don’t want to let you out of my sight.”
I blush. “Um, okay. What do you want to do?”
He rubs his finger across his eyebrow, his trademark move when he’s stumped or thinking. “How about a tour of the house? This place is historic. Drafts and all. Then I could make you dinner.”
“You don’t have to—”
“I want to.”
“Okay, a tour.” I try to remember what Auntie told me about the house, over the years, in bits and pieces. “Originally, I think this place belonged to the Walker Timber Company. But that was a century ago.”
He presses his large hand to the ornate banister. “The elegant construction, it’s—”
“Queen Anne style. The Walker family sold the place in the early nineteen hundreds, I think, when the timber industry went downhill. The house passed through maybe two other owners—I’m not sure—before my aunt and uncle bought it thirty years ago. They renovated the rooms together. My uncle died nearly a decade ago. Heart attack.”
“I’m sorry—your aunt must miss him.”
Uncle Sanjoy’s kind, round face pops into my mind—his paunch, his perpetually watery eyes. “I miss him, too. He was kind to her. The bookstore was her dream. He was in business. They didn’t actually live in this house together. They had a place a few blocks away. She moved in here after he died.”
“She never remarried?”
I shake my head.
“She must be lonely.”
“She has customers and friends and my parents and Tony. But now she’s getting older, and she’s not well. She went to India for a heart operation.”
“You must be worried about her.”
“I am, but she just called to tell me she’s okay.” I exhale with relief. “There’s something else she’s not telling me. I can only hope she comes back safe and sound. She loves this old dusty bookstore.”
“I don’t blame her. The place has charm.”
Charm. Maybe it does, a little. “Um, come with me. I’ll show you the rest of the house.”
I lead him through the rooms, pointing out the old fireplaces, wallpaper, the wainscoting, showing him the different sections of the bookstore.
“Curious George,” he says, pulling out a yellow picture book in the children’s room. “Brings back memories.”
“I read that one, too.”
We pull out one book after another, reminiscing about the stories of childhood.
“I loved Superman but not the Hardy Boys,” he says.
“I read the Hardy Boys but not Nancy Drew. I had a crush on those boys.” I pull out an old copy of What Happened at Midnight.
“On both of them?”
“Yeah, but not at the same time.”
Connor chuckles. He follows me into the Antiquarian room, full of piles of musty volumes crammed together on tall bookshelves.
“My aunt keeps so many old books in here—from the dawn of history.”
“She’s a collector. Look at this stuff.” He pulls out a slim, tattered book. “This one is old. Might fall apart.”
He hands me the volume. I hold it carefully in my hands. Tamerlane and Other Poems, by “a Bostonian.” “No author. Just some Bostonian.”
“Keep it,” he whispers. “It’s my gift to you.”
“Your gift?” I say. “But it was here.”
“I brought it here, a while ago. I was waiting for someone to find it.”
“You put this book on the shelf? Published in 1827.” I read the small type on the cover page. “ ‘Young heads are giddy, and young hearts are warm, / And make mistakes for manhood to reform.— Cowen.’ ”
He looks at me, his eyes dark.
Young hearts are warm. My knees are weak. I’m a walking cliché of giddy. “Words from the past,” I say.
Connor grins. “A Bostonian trying to convey a message. Don’t lose the book. Keep it in a safe place.”
“In the office, then,” I say, leading him down the hall. In Auntie’s office, I slip the book into my giant handbag. Then I lead him down the hall to the large front staircase. “There are other floors, but we don’t have to see them.”
“You’re not going to invite me up?” He grins, his eyes twinkling with boyish mischief. A tingling sensation rushes through me like a mild electric shock.
“The Metaphysics and Science rooms are on the second floor, and above that is my aunt’s apartment, on the top floor. I’m staying there while she’s gone.”
He runs his fingers through his hair. “Gonna show me?”
Legs wobbly, I lead him up the wide staircase to the second floor. I show him the books, the old laundry chute, the cubbyholes, the hidden corners in closets.
We’re at the door to the narrow staircase. “This route was for the servants. Weird, isn’t it? The way they built these houses.”
He looks up through the cavernous darkness. His arm brushes mine, sending another tingle through me. “Gothic. And you’re staying here alone? You’re brave.”
“I don’t think of myself that way.” But maybe I am. Brave. I take a deep breath and climb up.
Chapter 27
Connor Hunt follows me all the way up to the apartment. In Auntie’s small living room, his footsteps creak behind me. I hear a faint hum in the air.
“Nice place,” he says. “Homey.”
“Thanks. All my aunt’s doing.”
His smell is stronger in here—a kind of woodsy aroma that makes me think of camping. I haven’t been camping since childhood. He strides to the window and stoops a bit to see outside. He has a force about him, a kind of simmering masculinity that makes my throat dry.
“Helluva view,” he says. “Ferry’s on its way in. Come here. Look at the stars.”
Should I stand this close to him? A few steps from Auntie’s bedroom? I peer out at a thick medley of stars in an oil-black sky. “Wow. In L.A., you can’t see the stars anymore. Not like this. I forgot about this sky—the way it clears up here, the way the rain washes everything away.”
“How long have you lived in L.A.?” His arm touches mine. I feel his solidity through the fabric of his shirt.
“Since I left home. Long time ago. I was eighteen. The condo I shared with Robert is on the beach. Beautiful area, but even there, the sky isn’t black like this. It’s orange at night there.”
“Sky-glow. Light pollution.
A side effect of industrial civilization.”
“Sky-glow. Is that an actual word in the dictionary?”
“It’s the combination of all light reflected from what it has illuminated. The light escapes into the sky, and the atmosphere scatters and redirects the light back to the earth.”
“So in L.A., I’m seeing sky-glow.”
“That’s right.”
“Is the sky like that in other places? Have you traveled a lot? Maybe to Africa—like your dad?”
He looks down at me, turning his face so that his silhouette is half illuminated by the moon. In this light, he looks larger than life and more beautiful, too, the shadows and planes of his face sharp and strong. “How did you know about my dad?”
“You left his memoir here. I found it on a table. I saved it for you.”
“Ah, I see. Thank you. Yes, I’ve been to Africa.”
“Following in his footsteps. He’s quite a man.”
He glances at me sharply. “He died over twenty years ago.”
“I’m sorry.” I touch his arm. “You must miss him.”
He stiffens perceptibly. “I was young when he passed away.”
I long to ask how his father died in Africa, but I don’t want to be rude. “You must have fond memories of him.”
“Fond, yes.” His voice is distant.
“You must have grown up admiring him. He was fearless and caring and selfless. And so serious about his calling.”
“Serious. Yes.” He’s staring up at the stars.
“If he were alive today, I think I could fall in love with him.”
“Love. Really.”
“Isn’t that crazy? I loved reading about his life. Was Africa different for you? Do you remember going there with him when you were little? Did you go after you grew up?”
He’s silent a moment, then: “In some places in Africa, the sky is so dark, the stars so abundant, the universe seems made of them.”
“What was most surprising to you? Or unsettling?”
“The extent of suffering. Preventable, treatable pain. Many of the people we saw had never been to a doctor.”
“Never?”
“Not once in their lives. Not to a doctor or a dentist. When I went as a physician, I found people with parasites, gum disease—common ailments that had gone untreated for so long, they’d caused other complications. We treated what we could.”
“What happened to those people after you left? What did they do?”
“That’s a good question. Even with all they go through, their life has a kind of warm simplicity. Ironically, they seem happier than most people here. They’re not inundated with advertising, with reminders of the material things that are supposed to make their lives better.”
A winking light moves across the sky, against the stars. A plane. I could hop that plane and hitch a flight to Africa, to a life of happy simplicity.
“What you did was noble,” I say. “Rushing off to help people in need. Just like your dad.”
“A family tradition, yes.”
“Do you wish you could go back?”
“I’ve done all I can do there.” He’s looking at me in the darkness, the lines of his face rugged in shadow.
“Maybe you could write your own memoir, like your father did.” My words hang in the air, suspended.
“Enough about me,” he says finally. “What do you do, when you’re not running this bookstore?”
“I manage socially responsible retirement accounts. At least, I hope that’s what I’ll be doing when I get back to L.A. I might be out of a job, if I don’t get a big account, only—”
“Only what?”
I sigh. “I’m scared. There, I said it. I’m scared that I’ll mess up.”
“Why?”
“Because I won’t be putting my heart into it. I’m afraid I’ll sound desperate because I am. I need my job.”
“You don’t sound desperate. You sound undecided. That’s different.”
I smile at him. “I like that. Undecided.”
“You’re not planning to stay here?”
I step back, away from the moonlight. “The bookstore is my aunt’s labor of love. I’m only here for a break. I’m running away from . . . memories. Then Robert came up here and threw me way off.”
“You’re still in love with him.”
Am I? Robert still dredges up powerful emotions inside me. “I still feel things for him. Good and bad, but mostly bad.”
“That’s only human. We don’t just walk away and wash our hands of people.”
“I wish I could. Maybe I’m in disappointment. I’m in denial.” All the cobwebs come into focus—the clutter, the shadows, the darkness.
“Divorce is like a death. You have to grieve, and then find a new way forward. Life is messy. I bet that sounds like a cliché.”
“Do you ever want to get married again?” I ask.
“I’m moving on to a new kind of life. I’m not sure what’s in store or who I will be. I’ll know when I get there.”
“I’m trying to move on, too. But it’s hard. We led such a comfortable life, Robert and I. We bought furniture together. We had an elaborate wedding ceremony. Our families were there. Couples aren’t supposed to break up if their families get along. Everything about us was so . . . intertwined.”
“You’re reinventing yourself. We reinvent ourselves all the time, every minute of every day. You can do it. You can untangle yourself from him.”
“But why didn’t I see? The signs were all there. Late nights in his office, supposedly grading papers or meeting with students. Phone calls. Excuses. I don’t ever want to fall in love again. It hurts too much.”
“I was hurt that way, once. No joy without pain and all that. Think about it. Yin and yang. Light and dark. Life and death. Love and grief. You’re grieving.”
When I speak, my voice comes out low and hoarse. “I didn’t realize that was what I was doing. I find grief . . . unbearable. I feel as though I wasted six years of my life with Robert. Seven, if you count the year before we were married. I should have known about his affairs.”
“He probably went to great lengths to hide them from you.”
I wipe a bead of sweat from my forehead. “What was it about me? Was I not good enough for him? Not a good cook? Caught up in my job? Not pretty enough?” You never gave an inch.
“You’re beautiful and kind and sincere. Who cares if you can’t cook? I’ll cook for you.”
The next sentence catches in my throat. What was I going to say? The heat rises in my cheeks. Why do I have such difficulty breathing when Connor is standing so close? “I shouldn’t be telling you all this—”
“I like your candid nature.” A bulb winks out in the next room, with a slight crackling sound.
“Being with you is unusual. I feel as though I can say anything, do anything.”
“I’m glad. How about supper? Want to watch the chef in action?”
I lead him into Auntie’s kitchen, where he glides around, pulling out a cutting board, knife, onion, garlic, and vegetables.
We prepare a stir-fry together in a strange dance, side by side. The room fills with soft vibrations, as if music is playing somewhere beyond our range of hearing. In Auntie’s fragrant kitchen, it’s as if only the two of us exist.
When we sit at the tiny dining table, he doesn’t eat.
“I had dinner before I got here,” he says.
“So you’re going to watch me eat?”
“With pleasure.”
I blush, staring at the steaming, fragrant vegetables on my plate. I begin to eat, and I soon forget to feel self-conscious. The flavors burst forth on my tongue—ginger, garlic, onion, spices. Broccoli and cauliflower have never tasted so good, nor onion so sweet. Connor spins magical tales of his childhood fly-fishing in the rivers of the Olympic foothills, canoeing on pristine lakes. “I’ve been away a long time, but I’m glad to be back now. The island feels like home.”
“Where are you stay
ing?” I ask.
“Fairport Bed and Breakfast, looking for a permanent residence.”
“You’re going to buy a house here?” I savor a mouthful of mushrooms and onions flavored with ginger.
“I’m a traveler. But I’ve come full circle now. Back home. I missed this place.”
“I missed the island as well,” I say, to my surprise. “The beach is soothing. And the moss and the clean air and even the rain.” I never thought I would say this.
“Very little has changed. Some of the old restaurants are still here, and shops.”
“I used to hike the nature trails, but I haven’t done that in years.”
“We should explore together,” he says. “I haven’t seen much since I returned. I’ve been too busy. My dream was always to open a community clinic here—”
“That’s a fabulous idea.” Maybe he is like his father, a little.
He moves his chair around the table, next to me, and before I can stop him, he’s leaning over to kiss me. His lips are firm, insistent, and I’m transported to a shimmering world of need. An ache of longing spreads through me, but I use all my willpower to extricate myself from his arms.
“I can’t do this.” I push my chair back and stand. My lips tingle. My body fills with light, as if a universe of stars has come to life inside me.
“Why not?” His eyes are half closed, his face slack.
Every molecule of my body wants to give in, but I can’t. “I’m not . . . ready.”
“I can wait.”
“You might be waiting forever.” I put up my inner shield. An image of Robert comes to me. Once, he took my breath away, too.
“Maybe I have forever,” Connor says. He gets up slowly, with obvious reluctance, and heads for the door to the stairs.
My heart sinks. “I’ll come down with you. Let me put on my shoes.”
“No need. I can see myself out. But we’ve only just started—”
“I need time, Connor. That’s all.” My heart is hermetically sealed.
“Take all the time you need. But remember, sometimes you have to plunge in, take the risk, grab life with both hands, even if only for a day.”
And then he is gone.
Chapter 28
Haunting Jasmine Page 12