Jim Rubart Trilogy

by James L. Rubart

  Maybe he’d head for the beach a day early.

  It was becoming his sanctuary.

  As long as he could continue to keep his childhood memories at bay.

  And if no new room popped into existence to scramble his brain.

  CHAPTER 8

  Julie was right. He had to decide if his future had her in it. Soon. For both of them.

  Saturday morning Micah sat in his overstuffed leather chair and watched the Pacific’s horizon through a pair of Steiner binoculars, wishing the choice were simple.

  Part of him wanted to be with her forever, but if the proverbial gun was pressed to his temple, he would probably decide on a life without her.

  What a mess.

  No question. The house was monkey wrench central. It would be a lot less complicated to dump the thing, marry Julie, and get on with RimSoft’s conquest of the world.

  Leave this place? It was the logical choice. But the right choice? No clue. It felt like he was playing tug-of-war—RimSoft, Seattle, and Julie on one end; the house, Cannon Beach, and Rick on the other. He was the rope.

  A cool May wind swept through the open doors that led to his deck, dousing him in the chilled outside air. He grabbed his empty Tigger coffee cup and shuffled toward the kitchen. As he looked up, his fingers went limp and the mug slipped out of his hand and made a thunking sound onto the carpet. His knees weakened, and he almost joined Tigger on the floor. At the back of the kitchen was a doorway and beyond it a hall.

  A hallway that had not been there before.

  Micah staggered through the kitchen, through the doorway. At the end of the hall was a door. Not again.

  Breathe.

  He leaned into the wall as his legs bounced like jackhammers. Sliding down the wall to the floor, he squeezed his head with both hands.

  Think!

  Maybe it had been there. He thought back to his last visit. Was it there? No. Not a chance. He’d either lost his mind or someone had added a sizable addition to his house in four days.

  He fought down the impulse to run. He knew he wasn’t going crazy, knew the hallway wasn’t there before, and knew this addition couldn’t have been completed during the week he’d been in Seattle. But there was no fourth answer to defer to. He rubbed his face with both hands, stood, and gripped the dark chocolate brown, semishag carpet with his toes, as if to anchor himself to reality.

  The walls of the hallway were painted in a faux gold parchment. They led to a dark, six-panel door with a brass knob. He crept toward the door. When he reached it, he inched his shaking hand up to the knob, then pushed with his pinkie finger.

  The door swung open on silky hinges, and Micah let out a low whistle. The ceiling and walls were made of glass giving a 180-degree view up and down the coastline. Two chairs made from Brazilian tauari hardwood faced the front windows, and a bookshelf set along the back held what looked like picture books.

  In the middle of the small room an easel held an oversized canvas. Next to it were a myriad of brushes and oil paints along with sketches and photos of ocean landscapes.

  Micah stared at the canvas. A stream meandered down an ocean beach through logs rubbed smooth by winter storms, and the artist had started creating jade ocean waves. Mountains shot up in the distance, and the rough outline of trees along the shoreline had been started.

  The painting exploded out at him. He could almost hear the gurgle of the stream running over sand and rock and see the wind weaving through the trees. Micah traced the edge of the beach with the tip of his finger, feeling the undulation of oil paint on canvas, imagining the soft, grainy feeling of running his hands through warm sand.

  The shadows cast by the mountain felt cool, seagulls crying overhead filled his ears, and the ocean thundered, explaining everything and telling nothing.

  This was creation. No photo could ever capture the emotion of a painting like this. This was legacy. It stirred a longing to create more than software. This was art worth devoting a life to. Pinpricks of joy fired off inside as he took it in. The painting wasn’t even a third complete, yet it captivated him.

  After twenty minutes he left the room, trepidation and pleasure filling him simultaneously. This room? Impossible. Yet it was here. He closed the door, then stood gazing at its surface. This room was a treasure. He placed his fist on the door, then slowly opened his fingers, stretching them to the point of pain, as if he could cover the whole door with his hand. The finish on the wood felt like cool silk.

  This house held secrets. He shuddered and eased away from the door without taking his eyes off it. As wonderful as the painting room was, Micah had to get away, try to put the room out of his mind. One strange room he could handle; two was over the edge.

  Sending him to the funny farm was apparently Archie’s primary objective.

  He took a spin through the rest of the house with the hair on his neck at full attention. Nothing different. It didn’t help him relax.

  A painting room. Okay. Yes, the painting was captivating. But what was next? A torture chamber? Worse, what if he walked into a room that was an in-living-color replay of what happened on this stretch of coast twenty years ago?

  The memory flashed into his mind before he could stop it.

  “Micah, Dad and Mick will be back from the store in a few, so we’ve got some time to play a just-you-and-me game.” His mom pulled down her pale blue sunglasses and winked at him.

  “Beach Ball Bonanza!” Micah said.

  “You start, kiddo.”

  Micah grabbed the rainbow beach ball, set it up on a little mound of sand, and scuffed back ten yards, his brows furled in concentration. Then he sprinted toward the ball and kicked it hard, an oomph spurting out of his mouth as his foot connected, sending the ball over his mom’s head.

  “Mom! Wind’s got it! It’s going into the ocean!”

  “I’ll get it.”

  “But those waves are big monster waves—”

  “They’re much bigger to you than they are to me.”

  “But what if—?”

  His mom stopped and smiled. “I’ll be fine, Micah. Really.”

  Micah yanked his mind back from the abyss and forced the memory down into the recesses of his heart.

  No. He wouldn’t go there. Never. Nice try, Archie.

  He grabbed a Diet Coke and paced through the living room, staring at the fireplace, out the windows at the storm clouds gathering over the ocean, at the hallway leading to the painting room.

  Going crazy was not an option. He should get it over with, sell the place. Or simply leave and never come back. Push the house out of his mind. Get things right with Julie and move on with his life. She deserved a ring; he deserved his sanity.

  He would do it. Put the house on the market and set a wedding date. Micah picked up his cell to call Julie; a second later he tossed it onto the hunter green couch in front of his fireplace.

  Impossible.

  Julie was right. In spite of what happened to his mom here, this place had a grip on him, and his heart was changing addresses.

  Which would make their meeting on Monday a powder keg.

  CHAPTER 9

  Monday morning Julie walked into Micah’s office, looking like a tiger that hadn’t eaten in a week. Her countenance sent a clear message. He was dinner.

  “Hey, how are you?”

  Julie didn’t answer.

  Micah pulled away from his computer and leaned back in his leather chair. She stared at him, her lips pressed together so hard they were white.

  “I’m sorry.” He stood and hopped over to her. “I’ve blown it. I’ve been distant. Blah, blah, blah, okay?” He flashed a smile.

  “Not funny. This is serious, Micah.”

  “I know. Really. I’ve been emotionally absent these past few weeks and I’m sorry.” He ra
n his fingers down her arms and slid them into her palms.

  “A few weeks? Try six.” Julie yanked her hands out of Micah’s grasp. “What is going on with you? You’re my business partner. And my soul mate, I thought. Both of those relationships require spending time together, talking to each other. And I need an answer about our future, one way or another.”

  “We have been talking.” He rubbed the back of his neck and walked toward the wet bar at the back of his office to pour a Diet Coke.

  “E-mail is not talking. We haven’t had a conversation since our abbreviated dinner last week. Are you going to explain what’s been going on with you?”

  “I’m . . .”

  “I need the answer now. Is our romance on hold? ’Cause that’s the message coming across the line clear and sonic-boom loud.”

  “No. Of course not. I don’t want to lose us. I’m just trying to—”

  “To what, Micah? Break up gently?”

  “It’s hard to explain.” He walked to his windows, turned, and scuffed back to his desk. “We’re not on hold. Really. But things are going on inside me.”

  “What things? Tell me.”

  What could he tell her? He hated Cannon Beach because it’s where his mom died? Sorry, no one knew that. But that he was also weirdly attracted to Archie’s house because it felt so familiar and even peaceful? That part of him would refuse to ever face his past, but maybe a part of him was willing? Tell her the man who was always in control and knew exactly what he wanted didn’t know anymore?

  “I can’t, Julie. Not yet. But I will. Trust me. Please?” He touched the tips of his fingers to the tips of hers, and this time she didn’t pull away.

  “You have to be done very, very soon, okay?” She nestled into his arms, and he held her tight.

  A few minutes later Micah sighed as he watched her walk into the hall. He would be done with Cannon Beach soon. He just needed a little bit longer.

  Yeah, as if all he needed was more time.

  ||||||||

  He didn’t leave for the beach till Thursday night at nine for work-related reasons. But in reality they were flimsy excuses to delay arriving at a house that both drew and repelled him. No more new rooms, Archie. Please.

  Friday morning he dropped in on Rick. Devin was out front wiping his palms on a rag dirtier than his hands.

  “Anyone in the old guy’s office?”

  “Nah, good timing,” Devin said. “Head on back.”

  Micah opened Rick’s door and found him sitting in an ancient leather chair, head down. Indistinct mumbling came from his mouth. The sound was passionate. When Rick looked up, tears were in his eyes.

  “Sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt your . . . your, uh—”

  “It’s called prayer, Micah.” A sigh and a laugh slipped from Rick’s mouth.

  “You’re a full-blown Christian? You’re kidding me.”

  The instant the words slipped out he regretted it. He’d known Rick was a Christian from the moment he met him. It burst out of him like a geyser. “What a crock. Of course you are. I see it all over you.”

  “How are you, pal?” Rick stood, grinned, and smacked his open palm into Micah’s. “Feels like it’s been a year.”

  “For me, too.”

  He’d seen the man five days ago, but it seemed like five weeks. He had a connection with Rick missing from almost all his other relationships. Not true. Missing from all his other relationships. His other friendships were roles, acts he and they put on to cover up the truth: That they raced together on a treadmill with no finish line, too busy to really know the person running beside them.

  It was that way with his board of directors, his employees, the friends he still saw, even with Julie. Everyone acted out his or her part in the play, recited his required lines, none of them knowing who the other was when the lines were gone. But with Rick there were no lines to recite. No masks to put on. Because Rick never wore one. Or did he?

  Something about the man didn’t compute. Something was just . . . off. Everyone was flawed—had faults, blind spots, whatever you wanted to call them. But not Rick. No cracks in his veneer. He was kind. Strong. Wise. Had a good sense of humor. It scared Micah. He could always tell the TV evangelists who had the secret perverted life going on underneath because of their perfect hair. Rick’s hair wasn’t, but everything else about him was. Warning. Warning. Danger, Will Robinson.

  Micah forced himself to let it go. The man was one of the greatest friends he’d ever had, and he barely knew him. Innocent till proven guilty.

  “You pray a lot?” Micah said.

  “Jesus says the Holy Spirit will guide His followers, and His followers will hear His voice. So I’m stocking up on wisdom.”

  “Uh, yeah. Hope you get a huge store of it.”

  “What about you?”

  “Nah, not me.”

  “You knew His voice, once. But your ears have filled up with other things. You just need to start listening again.”

  “Relax, Rick. Maybe my faith’s cooled a little over the past few years, but I still believe God exists.” Micah flopped down into a wicker chair that screeched in protest. “There’s a lot more to life than reading your Bible and going to church. Worlds out there are begging to be conquered. I’ve just shifted my priorities around a little.”

  Rick stared at him.

  “Hey, if you think life is about other things, I’d love to hear it.”

  “Really?” The corners of Rick’s mouth turned up.

  “Really, really.”

  Rick leaned forward, his eyes bright. “Jesus came to bring life. Full life. Make people whole. To break the chains wrapped around people’s hearts and set them free. It’s not about rules and regulations. That’s religion. It’s about freedom and friendship.” Rick leaned back in his chair. “How free are you, Micah?”

  Micah swallowed. “Life is different now.” He sat up and patted his knees. “That was so long ago.”

  “Oh no, son, it was just a moment ago.”

  Micah looked out the window and searched for a response. There was none. Break the chains around his heart? He wasn’t even sure his heart still existed.

  When he got home, he threw on a pair of sweats and went for a long walk on the beach. At the end of the walk, he sat on a log with deep scars caused by long ocean winters and closed his eyes.

  “God, what are You doing to me? I thought we understood each other. You keep Your distance; I’ll keep mine. Why can’t You let the past stay buried fifty feet under where it belongs? You’re setting me up. Rick is setting me up. Archie is setting me up. What do You want from me? What does that house want from me? I have a life. One I love.”

  He stopped. What was the point in lying to God?

  “Fine. Maybe Seattle isn’t perfect, and maybe I have lost part of my heart, and maybe You’ve got something going on down here that will help me, but I don’t think I want it. I know I don’t want it.”

  Enough introspection. He stood and jogged back to his house. Tomorrow he’d wander into town. Meet a few normal people. Have a few ordinary conversations.

  At least that was the plan.

  CHAPTER 10

  Saturday afternoon Micah strolled into Osburn’s Ice Creamery on Main Street to order two scoops of frozen bliss.

  The girl behind the counter dug out a double portion of Cookie Dough Hunk for the customer ahead of him as he breathed in the sugar-sweetened air and waited for his turn.

  Micah glanced back and forth between the comics on the wall—some new, some faded from years of entertaining tourists with a taste for Rocky Road and Chocolate Chip Mint—and the girl with shoulder-length dark walnut hair. A wayward strand draped across her eye. Tiny dimples set off her genuine smile perfectly. Beautiful.

  She was quick with the ice cream and
quicker to share a smile with the tourists on their way to a cold sugar high. “Hi. What can I get for you?”

  Micah gazed out the window and watched the tourists meander down the sidewalk, thinking about how radically different this world was from the one back in Seattle.

  “Ice cream! Anyone up for ice cream today?” The girl pretended to call out to the whole crowd before turning back to Micah. Her smile filled the room.

  “Sorry. Yeah, ice cream.” He looked into her eyes and saw laughter behind them, then glanced at her left ring finger. No gold.

  “What flavor is calling to you today?”

  “Pralines and Cream, definitely.”

  “Ah, he goes for the slightly plain ice cream with just enough flavor to avoid the ‘vanilla’ label.” She brushed the hair away from her face, but it drifted back down.

  “Do you always give personality profiles to people based on their ice cream choices?”

  “Only when they’ve just returned from a foreign land in their mind.”

  He smiled inside. This girl had wit.

  She dug out a huge scoop of Pralines and Cream and packed it down tight. “New in town?” She handed Micah his scoop on a waffle cone and winked.

  “Aren’t all the tourists?” He handed her a five-dollar bill over the top of the Plexiglas ice cream case. She took it, bumped the cash register with her hip, and the drawer opened.

  “You’re not a tourist.” She gazed at him with the hint of a challenge in her double-shot espresso brown eyes. He waited for her to explain how she knew that, but she reached into a register overflowing with Georges and Abes and handed him his change without comment.

  “And what, Ms. Sherlock, is your first name?”

  “Watson,” she said with a twinkle in her eyes but no smile on her lips. “But I only let my friends call me that.” She turned to the next person in line and asked for his order.

  Micah eased over to the side of the cash register. “So how’d you figure out I’m not a tourist?”