She stood next to him in RimSoft’s foyer, her ever-present notepad and minicalendar in hand. He’d bought her an iPhone the previous Christmas, but she’d never taken it out of the box. They watched the lobby become a river of workers.
“Energizing? Not really. Does it energize you?”
He hesitated. “Most of the time it still does.”
Shannon stared at him. “Most of the time?”
“Life at the speed of light, three thousand miles wide, a millimeter deep.”
“You’re not getting philosophical on me, are you?”
He ignored the question. Micah spotted Brad, his racquetball partner, across the lobby. Brad’s crew cut and horn-rimmed glasses made him look like a blond Buddy Holly, but he played racquetball like the Tasmanian devil.
“Hey, Bradley, get over here.”
Brad sauntered over. “You want another beating like last month, huh?”
“What? Can you say delusional? I can, and you should. I took you down three of the four games last Wednesday, the fourth game fifteen to zee-row. Memory okay, my friend?”
A few people chuckled as Brad came to a stop in front of Micah. “Nice try, boss man. Maybe in your dreams. It’s been a month since we played. I admit, you sliced and diced me the first game but lost the next three straight. Would’ve been four if we’d played another.”
“Ignoring the fact you were beat like a rug won’t change history. After that session last week, I even had to go to the bone crusher to straighten my spine. Remember?”
Brad’s grin drained from his face. “We didn’t play last week.” He blinked.
“You okay, buddy? Of course we played.”
“No, I was in San Fran last week. The whole week.”
“So, your twin stood in?” Micah laughed. “That’s your excuse for losing!”
Brad reached into his briefcase and pawed through it. He pulled out a rumpled piece of paper and held it at his side. “Tell me you’re kidding, Micah.”
“About?”
Brad held up the paper. It was an Alaska Airlines itinerary. “Take a look at my flights. What’s the first date?”
“April 6.”
“And the second?”
“April 10.”
“So blow my brains out and tell me how we played racquetball on Wednesday, April 7, if I was in San Francisco?”
Micah stared at the paper.
“CAT scans are amazing these days. Check it out maybe?” Brad tapped his head. “When you’re stressing, the memory always goes first. I’ll beat you again Friday morning if you’re free.”
A shiver sprinted down Micah’s spine. He stared at Brad, then Shannon.
“Micah, want to play?”
“Yeah, sorry.” Micah turned to Shannon. “Am I open?”
“Let me look . . . yes.”
He flashed a thumbs-up as Brad walked away. “Shannon, what did I do last Wednesday?”
She licked her finger and pawed through her calendar. “Conference call at nine, a quick meeting with the bank at ten fifteen, then you got ready for an afternoon board meeting.”
“No racquetball?”
She studied her calendar and smirked.
“You find this amusing?”
“Only a little.” She spun toward him. “You have to admit, Mr. Never-Miss-A-Beat, Always-In-Control, missing a beat and being out of control is slightly comical.”
“Hilarious. But that’s the point. I don’t ever miss a beat. There’s not a sliver of doubt in my mind that Brad and I played racquetball last Wednesday. But apparently my memory is the only one in which it exists. That’s more than missing a beat.”
“It wouldn’t hurt to take a day off.” She adjusted her glasses.
“I just did take a day off. Last weekend. Cannon Beach?”
“Oh yes, that’s right.” Shannon grinned. “Did it help?”
Micah glared at her. They walked toward the elevators, their tennis shoes squeaking on the polished faux marble floor.
“So tell me about the place at the beach. Like it? Don’t like it? Somewhere in between?”
“I like it slightly more than I hate it.” He punched the button for the top floor.
“That makes no sense.”
“No question about that.”
Shannon tapped her lip with her forefinger. “Julie tells me you’re going to sell it.”
“Yep.”
“You want me to find a real estate ag—?”
“Nope.”
“So you really don’t want to sell it.”
He watched the elevator numbers light up from 16 to 17 to 18. “I do want to sell it. But I need to get a better feel for the area first, get a feel for what it would go for.”
“Isn’t that what an agent does?”
Of course it was. It wasn’t rational, his wanting to go back down. But something about the house felt so . . . He couldn’t name the emotion.
“Do me a favor okay? The next four Fridays, can you clear my schedule?”
“Interesting.” She raised an eyebrow. “You do like this place.”
“No.” Micah looked at the ceiling. “I’m intrigued.”
He walked into his office and pulled up his appointment calendar on his computer. He stared at it for more than a minute as a thin layer of perspiration grew on his forehead. He swallowed twice and kept his eyes riveted on the screen. But it didn’t matter how long he stared.
The racquetball games he knew he’d played with Brad had vanished.
||||||||
Two hours later Micah stood at his office windows and studied the ferryboats chugging across Puget Sound’s dark green waters. The same ocean lapped at the sand at Cannon Beach. Thoughts filled his mind of snow-white sand dollars, sand squeaking under his shoes, and those massive picture windows perfectly framing the surf.
If only Archie could have built the house in Lincoln City or Newport. Then he’d keep the place forever.
But he didn’t need Cannon Beach reminding him of the day that ripped his life apart every time he stepped onto the sand.
Shannon stood in his doorway. “Julie’s meeting starts in five minutes.”
“What?” Micah blinked and spun toward her.
“Welcome back to Earth.” Shannon pointed down the hall. “Julie’s meeting.”
“Right.” He left his office and met Julie at the conference room door. “You ready?”
Julie smiled. “Completely.”
For the first few minutes of her marketing presentation to their board of directors, Micah listened intently. But as Julie moved into the breakdown of their ad budget, his mind wandered. Three minutes later a sketch of his house at Cannon Beach and the surrounding mountains appeared under the rapid movement of his mechanical pencil.
“. . . and RimSoft’s logo will get an overhaul . . .” Julie’s voice droned.
Need to put a sand castle in there. A few more turrets on it. Perfect. Maybe a few kites in the sky. That’s an idea. He should buy one of those high-tech stunt kites. What a kick to learn to fly—
“Micah?” Julie’s voice cut through his moment of admiration. She and the board stared at him. “You with me here, partner?”
The lead at the tip of his pencil snapped off as he looked up. “Yeah. Sorry.” He set his pencil down and folded his arms. Resist. Julie needs the support. He glanced down at the sketch. It begged for a golden retriever. As Julie turned to her left to answer a question, Micah picked up his pencil and clicked twice. The lead leaped out as if at attention, ready for orders. Micah stopped drawing the instant Julie finished giving her reply.
When the presentation was over, he mouthed, “Nice job” to Julie, who shook hands with board members. She frowned at him.
As he strode out the door
, his stomach alarm clock went off, and he shut it off with a Diet Coke and a turkey sandwich—extra mayo—from the company deli. When he got back to his office, Julie was leaning against his desk, arms crossed.
“I know you like doodling sketches when you’re in meetings, but this time was a little much. I think you caught two minutes of my presentation, max. Was your mental sabbatical to anyplace interesting?”
Micah ripped his drawing from his notepad and held it up. “Hmm?”
In the foreground was the ocean, then the beach with two sand castles, a stunt kite, and a golden retriever leaping for a piece of driftwood spinning through the air. His home was the focal point of the drawing, framed by trees on both sides, the picture windows in perfect proportion. Smoke curled out of the chimney.
“I take it that’ll be part of the brochure to get the thing sold?” Julie pulled her arms in tighter and leaned back.
“Hadn’t considered that. Yeah, maybe.”
“Don’t tell me you’re starting to like the place.”
“No way.” He stared at his drawing. He couldn’t keep his mind off Archie’s house. It drew him like a magnet. Yes, Cannon Beach was laced with razor-sharp pain from his past. But now, in some strange way, it filled him with anticipation. And that weird familiar feeling in the house continued to pull at him.
“I need to ask you something.” Micah laid the drawing on his desk and smoothed it out with both hands. “I want to make the next three or four weekends long ones and hang out down there. Be all right with you?”
“Wow.” Julie tried to laugh. “I’ve been ditched for another woman before but never a house.”
“Come with me.” He kissed her on the cheek.
“Do you want me to?”
“Sure. Yes.” Micah turned back to his drawing. “Of course.”
She shook her head. “Nope, sorry.”
“Why?”
“Because I know you. You want to be there.” Julie walked over to Micah’s windows and tapped on the glass. “But you don’t want me to be there with you.”
Micah coughed out a laugh. “I just said come with me.”
“‘Come with me’ is very different from saying ‘I want you to come.’ ”
Micah slumped into his chair. “Do we have to play the semantics game every time we talk? It’s exhausting.” He leaned forward and waited for her to answer. She didn’t.
“Fine. I want you to come.”
“Why do you let things come out of your mouth that your eyes tell me are a lie?”
Micah snatched his cedar letter opener off his desk and tore into the pile of envelopes sitting next to his laptop. “I thought you said you didn’t like the ocean.”
“I don’t, but I still wanted to see what you’d say.”
Micah slapped the letter opener down on his desk. “Do you think you could serve me up a nice slice of guilt pie with that side of manipulation?”
“You don’t get it, do you, Micah?”
He sighed. “What do you want from me?”
“You really want to know?” Julie leaned in till their faces were inches apart.
“Yes.”
“A decision. Take your next three or four weekends, fine. But when they’re over, you’d better be able to tell me if there’s a ring in my near future.”
CHAPTER 6
Freedom. Sweet freedom. Micah walked out of his office Thursday evening at six thirty and took a deep breath. Free of having to give Julie an answer he wasn’t ready to give, free of the grind. He used to love the rush of RimSoft—seventy-hour workweeks were never a problem. Were, past tense. He could get used to a forty-hour workweek.
Plus it would feel good to get away from what had become Seattle’s version of Bizarro World. The missing racquetball game and the cross-country trip his car took by itself gnawed at his mind like a gopher on steroids. Not to mention the framed Inc. cover that decided to do a Houdini vanishing act. Wait. Houdini was the escape artist. Perfect. That’s exactly what Micah would do. In the morning, when he woke up to the roar of the ocean, his escape from the unexplained weirdness in Seattle would be complete.
There was no plan for the weekend. His Seattle life was so scheduled and under such control, having no agenda unsettled him for a moment. But as his car chewed up the miles with Jack Johnson’s soothing guitar and vocals purring in the background, he allowed himself not to know what the next three days would bring.
When he reached Astoria, he shot up a quick prayer. Couldn’t hurt. The first two times it stuck in his throat. The third he said, “God, I don’t know if You hear me anymore. But this house . . . it draws me. It scares me. Both at the same time. Can You explain why Archie built the place there? Plus the strange stuff going on in Seattle . . . I . . .”
He didn’t know what else to say. “I hope You know what I’m trying to tell You. Amen.”
God was silent, but Micah had expected Him to be, so it was all right.
When Micah arrived, he set down his bags and went straight to the master bedroom and crashed. He didn’t move again till just after seven the next morning.
As he sipped a cup of dark roast coffee from his French press, he watched seagulls dive through the air like Star Wars tie fighters. To fly. What a rush that would be. The thought gave him sudden inspiration. Running. Back in high school he’d flown, running the eight hundred meters faster than anyone in his school ever had. His senior season he finished first in state, which the paper deemed extraordinary since it was only his second time to compete in the event.
But it didn’t impress his dad. Not even when KING 5 TV did a feature story on Micah. His dad didn’t watch when the piece aired.
He hadn’t run consistently for years, not from lack of desire but lack of time. Now, at least for two days, he had an abundance.
He threw on a Windbreaker and headed south toward Hug Point. He’d discovered the spot on the Internet the week before. The tide in front of the point never got low enough to allow people to walk around it on the sand. In the late 1800s settlers working their way up the coast solved the problem by blasting out a massive section of the rock that jutted into the ocean. They paved it with concrete, smooth enough for their wagons, and for the first time they could bring supplies as far north as Cannon Beach.
The road was still there and could be walked on. But only at low tide. The rest of the day waves crashed onto the ledge and caught uninformed tourists in a saltwater bath.
Micah wanted to see the pieces of concrete the sea hadn’t yet claimed, and according to the Internet, there were caves and a waterfall worth seeing just past the remnants of the old road.
In less than thirty minutes, he reached Hug Point State Park. He imagined kids playing in the waterfall or in the three caves during the summer. Perfect for families. Not today. It was a dreary April morning that had reserved the entire beach for Micah.
Or so he thought.
An unexpected burst from above sent rain pelting down so hard he headed for shelter in the biggest of the Hug Point caves.
The cave softened the crash of the surf, and the rain offered no noise to prove its existence. It felt like someone had muted the world. Micah saw no movement from his vantage point. He could be the only one left on Earth, and he wouldn’t know it.
The cave walls were almost black and slick with moisture. A crack ran along the ceiling, widening as it zigzagged toward the back wall. Nothing to worry about. It would take an earthquake to make this thing collapse. Micah took two steps toward the entrance.
Ten seconds later a man in a baseball hat, blue sweatshirt, and black workout shorts half ran, half walked toward him.
“Wow!” The man yanked off his St. Louis Rams cap and threw the rain from it onto the sand. “Makes me think of the ark.” He turned to Micah with a huge smile. “Rick.” The man extended his hand.
Micah fixed his gaze on Rick’s eyes. A shifting shade of sea green, they were intense and gentle at the same time. He was a bit taller than Micah, maybe six foot two, with thick hair the color of sandstone just starting to go gray. Micah liked him immediately.
He introduced himself and shook Rick’s hand. After they both commented on the forecast for the next few days, Micah asked Rick if he was a local.
“Lived here for a little over a year.”
“What do you do?”
“Oh, take walks on the beach, read good books, love watching old movies on rainy Saturday nights. And I still run or mountain bike three times a week, even at my age.” Rick stood up straight and pulled his sweatshirt tight against his stomach and smacked it twice with his palm. “Have to fight to keep this thing under control.”
Rick didn’t look like he was rolling in cash and couldn’t be much past fifty. “You’re retired?”
“No, still gotta work for another decade at least. I own the gas station in town. Mostly I bang away on the cars in back while the kids out front pump the gas. We’re one of the few stations that still actually work on folks’ cars. But I get out front every now and then to squeeze out a gallon or two of the octane. Can’t pump your own fuel in Oregon. Gives me a chance to see friends and meet the tourists.” He squinted at Micah. “You haven’t been gassing up in Seaside, have you?” His eyebrows furrowed in a deep, mock frown.
Micah chuckled. “Not anymore.” He glanced at Rick, then turned back to the sheets of rain sweeping over the waves. “Um, when I asked you what you did, I meant . . .” He stopped. It was obvious Rick knew exactly what he’d meant.
Rick dug a trench in the sand with his shoe. “Pretty sad that we define each other by what we do to put bread on the table rather than what makes us come alive.”
Come alive? What was that supposed to mean? It sounded like a line from one of those self-help gurus he was always being subjected to at national software conventions. Micah was silent as the rain continued to hammer the sand in front of the cave. Good thing Rick didn’t ask what made him come alive.
How would he answer the question? No idea. In that moment he realized something inside was very, very dead.
Jim Rubart Trilogy Page 4