by Brent, Cora
“Home Free!”
The words rang in my ears as I pressed my forehead against the rugged bark. I remembered exactly where they had come from.
***
A game of Hide and Seek was a grand neighborhood event on an ordinary day. But on the afternoon of the annual block party it was practically mythical. Kids from neighboring streets would sift over to Polaris Lane. Anyone’s yard was fair game. Houses were off limits. We played and wandered away and then returned to play again.
I was only five or six, scarcely old enough to understand the rules. But my brother, Tony, was ‘It’ and I was determined not to let him catch me. As he faced the small maple tree in our front yard and began counting to twenty five, I froze, panicking. I stared at the backs of the other children as they scrambled to find a place to hide. There were adults milling about everywhere but they scarcely noticed us. This was our game alone.
Tony had counted to fifteen and I still hadn’t moved. With a burst of energy in my short legs I ran across the street to the Kilbourne’s house. There was a small wooden shed in their backyard. I could only hope no one else had thought to hide there.
As I pulled the creaky door open and stepped into the musty interior I heard Tony finish at twenty five.
“Ready or not, here I come!”
I closed the door and breathed a sigh of relief.
“Who’s there?” whispered a voice in the darkness and I squealed.
“It’s me. It’s Angela,” I whispered back, my heart pounding. I wondered who had thought of my hiding place first.
“Oh,” said the voice. “It’s Marco.”
I frowned. Marco was my age but he was Tony’s friend. I backed away from him as he stepped out of the darkness and joined me. He opened the door a crack, peering out.
“I don’t see him,” he said. Then he turned to me and grinned. “Come on, let’s try for home.”
I shook my head. “He’ll catch us.”
“He won’t catch me.”
“Well then you go.”
Marco nudged me. “Come on, Angela. We may not get another chance.”
I bit my lip. Tony was fast but I had seen Marco run before and knew he was equally speedy. I, on the other hand, was the slowest runner in my class.
So I didn’t know what made me say, “All right,” and follow Marco into the sunlight.
My heard pounded as we crept slowly out of the Kilbourne’s backyard. As I peered around the corner of the garage I only saw adults. A distant child’s cry of complaint reached my ears as Tony discovered someone’s carefully chosen hideout. The thin maple tree in front of my house which served as home base stood lonely and unguarded.
Marco pulled at my hand. “Now!”
I followed him without thinking. He could have beaten me there by a mile but he didn’t. He waited, pulling me along, yelling “Hurry, Angela!” until we reached the safety of my front yard. Our small hands reached out at the same time and touched the surface of the tree.
“Home Free!” We yelled it together.
I had hugged the tree and giggled. And when I looked up, Marco had been standing there, watching me and grinning.
***
“Home Free,” I whispered, affectionately patting the tired maple tree.
My eyes filled with tears and I began to feel rather silly. After all, I was standing in the front yard mooning over a tree. What was happening to me? I sniffed and gave a little laugh, chalking these odd moments of melancholy up to pregnancy hormones. Which I supposed I needed to get used to.
The sudden noise of a garage door’s squeaky hinges made me jump a little. I froze as Marco emerged on his motorcycle. He had to have seen me. There was really no way he could avoid noticing me though sunglasses obscured his eyes and for a moment I was sure he would ride down the street without saying a thing.
He turned out of the driveway and headed toward Sky Lane before making an abrupt U-turn. My breath caught by the unreal sense of deja-vu as Marco Bendetti idled at the curb while I stood under the maple tree.
When he spoke I knew he remembered too. “Want a ride?”
I smiled. “Not right now.”
“I thought not,” he said more to himself than to me. He did not grin with amusement as he had that day seven years ago when he had asked me the same question in the same place. We stared at one another for a tense moment. Then Marco gunned the engine and drove away as I tiredly retreated to the house.
My parents were out back, making use of the waning sunlight to prune the rose garden. Every year my mother made perfumed rose water from the crushed petals. So absorbed were they in their tedious task they didn’t notice me at first.
Grace wasn’t wearing gloves and winced when her fingers fell victim to a thorn. Alan absently drew her hand to his lips and kissed it. He finally glanced up, surprised to see me hovering at the mouth of the backyard.
“You were gone so long I figured I’d head home and let Nancy close up the store. How’d it go with the Boyles?”
“The Boyles,” I repeated, rubbing my eyes. “I forgot.”
My father clicked his pruning shears. “Was that Marco who roared out of here a few minutes ago?”
“Who else?”
My parents glanced at one another. My mother’s voice was gentle. “Do you want to talk about it, Angela? About him?”
“No. I need to sort this out myself.” I started to trudge toward the side door when my father called my name. I turned around.
“What is it I always told you about roses?”
“Come on, Dad. I’m not in the mood for riddles.”
His gray eyes didn’t leave my face. “Humor me.”
I thought for a moment. “I don’t know. I guess you always said roses were tough to grow.”
“Yes. They require a lot of effort. But if you care for them enough…”
“You’ll be rewarded,” I finished. “I get it.”
“Do you?” asked my mother.
I didn’t answer her. All the events of the past few days were catching up with me. I wanted nothing more than to curl into my bed and sleep until it was a different day.
The comfort of the small bedroom in the front of the house almost made me weep. I kicked off my shoes and sank onto the quilted coverlet, trying to forget at least for a little while about all of the moments tiny and momentous which had gotten me to this point in time. Moments were funny. The overwhelming majority passed by in unremarkable fashion. Then there are the ones which change our destinies. I looked at the ceiling. One such moment had been in this room. But how different would it have been if Brian had never humiliated me? Would I have been so willingly reckless?
And then there are moments we wish had gone differently. What would I have done if Marco had only turned around on a rainy Fourth of July night? If he had said the things to me then which came out later? Later, when my heart had hardened after so many weeks alone in Boston. Later, when there was so much anger and confusion between us.
“How much I love you.”
I left the bed and crept over the corner of the bedroom where earlier in the day I had casually deposited all of the personal effects removed from the car I had sold to Marco’s brother. I pressed his leather jacket against my body. I pushed my face into the rough folds and inhaled it, wishing for him, feeling him.
Part of me still wanted nothing but to crawl back into bed. But I wasn’t going to let another night pass. It was time to stop waiting for the right moment to come to me.
CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT
An hour later my mother was curled up on the living room sofa avidly watching one of those police dramas where everyone darts around tensely for an hour. My father stood nearby, buttoning a fresh shirt and humming to himself.
“Where are you going?” I asked him.
He looked me over. “I could ask you the same question.”
I smoothed the folds of my dress. “Just out.”
My mother smiled at me gently. “I don’t think you need a jack
et, Angela.”
I hugged my arms around the leather. “Yes, I do. I definitely need a jacket.”
“Well,” said my father. “I decided to go back to the store for a bit. Let Nancy off the hook.”
“Can I have a ride?”
“You may have a ride.”
I rolled my eyes. “Ever the grammar police.”
Once we were settled into the ancient Dodge pickup, my father squinted into the darkness, the ignition key poised midair. “Do you love him, Angie?”
So much I can hardly breathe.
But I had a question of my own. “Dad? Why did you take so long? To go after Mom after she ran off to New York?”
Alan Durant inserted the ignition key and sighed, staring at the streetlights of Polaris Lane. “Because I wanted to give her a chance to make up her mind on her own terms. Because I didn’t know what I’d find there. And because I was angry.” He wanted me to understand. “Can you blame me?”
“No, Dad. I can’t.” I rolled down the creaky truck window and breathed in the summer air as we began moving. The heavy rains of the prior weeks had given even more green life to Cross Point Village. I could smell the fresh new growth under the layer of summer humidity. Here and there lightning bugs flickered. On nights like this all of us kids used to catch them by the dozens and deposit them in old mason jars with holes cut into the lids. “Yes,” I finally said. “I do love him.”
I looked down at my lap as we reached Durant’s. Steadfast Nancy was sweeping the floor inside. She waved at me as I climbed out of the truck, once more nervously running my hands over my dress. Marco had seen me in this dress before. I wore it the day of the block party. I had told him that was when I lost my way. Nothing could have been further from the truth.
“Courage, Angela,” my father said, not unkindly, as he opened the door to Durant’s. The bells above the entrance chimed and then were silent.
I stood in front of the store which bore my family’s name and looked down Maple Street. The hopping row of bars was such a contrast to the quiet town center behind me. Marco’s bike rested casually on the side of The Cave. As I got closer I could hear The Hollies singing the melancholy ‘Air That I Breathe’. Marco must not have gotten around to updating the jukebox selection. Perhaps he wasn’t going to. The old music did lend a curious nostalgia to the ambience. It was different from the other Maple Street bars which blasted endless heavy metal and hard rock.
The door was propped open to allow what little breeze there was into the building. One peek inside showed me how busy it was; a friendly mix of locals and bikers. My breath caught when I saw Marco. He was at the far end, behind the counter, talking avidly with Captain and a man I didn’t recognize. He still hadn’t cut his hair and his t-shirt was unable to hide the thick muscles of his chest and arms. I saw him laugh out loud and shake his head, and then take a white cloth out to rub the counter down. He still didn’t see me.
But Shannon did. She was serving beers to Ben Kaminski and the Boyle brothers. Her face brightened when she saw me standing there awkwardly in the doorway. She glanced back at Marco but he had begun polishing shot glasses and didn’t notice. When she turned back in my direction I beckoned to her. Her face was quizzical but she stepped outside.
“Angie! Wait, what’s wrong?”
“Nothing at all. I just need you to do me a favor, Shannon.”
Shannon listened to my short instructions, nodding slowly and accepting the small object I pressed into her hand. She seemed puzzled but agreeable.
“No problem.” She jerked her head towards the noisy interior. “I don’t even need to ask who it’s for.”
“Thanks, Shannon.”
“Of course, Angie.”
I stood with my back to the wall just outside the door, listening to the end of ‘Air That I Breathe’. A couple walked out of The Cave and looked at me curiously but said nothing. He had his leather jacket draped over her shoulders and she peered up at him with adoration. I closed my eyes as the opening notes of ‘Angel of the Morning’ floated outside. With a deep breath I turned toward the doorway and entered the bar.
He had frozen behind the counter as Merrilee Rush’s throaty voice drowned out the murmuring conversations. Marco’s eyes were blank at first when he saw me and I paused. We stared at one another and it was if everything else fell away. It was just me and him and the song which spoke directly to us.
It seemed like an eternity passed as he stepped around the side of the bar and made his way to where I waited. When he reached me he looked at the ground for a second and then raised his dark eyes to mine. Marco had always been able to read me far better than I was able to read him. Perhaps he was unusually perceptive. Perhaps I was just transparent. But just then his expression betrayed a hopeful uncertainty which let me know if wasn’t enough. My mother, arriving home in contrite terror, had spoken simply to the man she loved. Sometimes few words were best.
Marco started to speak but I quickly pressed a finger to his lips, shaking my head.
“I love you,” I said, my voice catching. I stroked his cheek and thought of the words he had spoken in front of Tom Hennessy’s house. “I’m sorry if I didn’t make that clear.”
As the music reach its crashing final stanza, Marco seized me. His hands were in my hair and his mouth was on mine for a moment which engulfed us both. And I knew it was one of the great ones. It was a breath in time I would remember with endless repetition and repeat to our children.
I was home. We both were.
EPILOGUE
Three weeks later…
Several of the crepe streamers from the picnic tables came off in my hands and I laid them across my dress. The sky was darkening and the last of the guests had left.
“That,” I said, “was the best wedding I’ve ever participated in.”
Marco laughed as he tied up a garbage bag full of paper plates and napkins. He had removed his jacket and rolled up his shirt. He looked sexy as hell and as I watched him I couldn’t wait for our wedding night.
“Think the rest of this will wait until tomorrow?” he asked, dropping the bag with a pile of others.
“I think you have other, more pressing chores to attend to,” I said, standing and letting the crepe flutter to the ground.
Marco looked interested. “Like what?”
“Me.”
My new husband reached me in two long strides. His kiss was as exciting as it was the first time we’d touched and as his strong hands moved over my body’s curves I felt myself begin to open up, wanting him.
He broke the kiss and raised an eyebrow. “Well, Mrs. Bendetti, according to the old ways, a marriage isn’t legal until it’s consummated.”
I took his hand and held it against my stomach. “Assuming they hadn’t already,” I reminded him.
He lovingly patted the vague swell of my belly. I sighed happily and let him pull me close. I let my head rest on his shoulder as we moved together, dancing to music only we could hear. Our backyard nuptials wouldn’t have satisfied richer tastes, but to me the day was perfect. We exchanged vows under the old maple tree in front of the house I grew up in. Afterwards we invited everyone for a party in Marco’s backyard and it seemed three quarters of Cross Point Village and all their cousins showed up. Tom Hennessy barbecued up a storm. Krista, Shannon and Cindy decorated the yard from end to end with an almost obnoxious abundance of flowers and crepe paper. My parents beamed until I feared their faces would freeze in toothy delight for all eternity. Lanie drove out from Boston and eyed some of Marco’s biker friends with interest.
As Marco’s brother, Damien, hugged me tightly before leaving for New York he handed me an envelope. “Don’t tell him until I’m out of here,” he said with a laugh. “He’ll argue and put up a fuss and I’m not taking no for an answer.”
I opened the envelope. It was a property deed. Damien had signed over his interest in 17 Polaris Lane to Mr. and Mrs. Marco Bendetti. I wasn’t a crying sort but I choked up with emotion as I hugg
ed my new brother-in-law. For a second I wondered once again about my own brother, Tony. We hadn’t been able to get in touch with him to invite him to the wedding. His phone had been shut off, his landlord said he’d skipped out, and we didn’t know where else to look. I hoped that somehow he would show up anyway. But I wasn’t surprised when he didn’t. It was the only brief sadness of the day.
Marco rubbed my back and I leaned into him more closely, kissing his neck. Even through all the layers of fabric on my off-the-rack department store wedding dress, I could feel how eager he was to get the post-wedding festivities underway. I kissed him ardently, letting him know I wanted it too.
Later, as I lay in Marco’s arms in our newly remodeled bedroom of his old house, I listened to the peaceful thud of his heart and thought about how long it took us to get here. As kids, we’d always known each other and yet we’d never known each other. It took us a long time to grow into the people we turned out to be. And it so happened, we were perfect together.
If you asked ten thousand couples you’d hear ten thousand tales. And they might all be pretty damn close to the same love story, with slight variations, each perhaps told a little bit differently.
This was mine.
***
About the author:
I love wild romantic stories, grunge era flannel, my vintage Kenmore sewing machine, embroidered dishcloths and absolutely everything that has to do with 1980s pop culture (i.e. leg warmers, scrunchies, big hair, early Madonna, boom boxes, wood paneled walls, stonewash jeans, etc).
If you believe in Happily Ever After and the unique magic of a John Hughes film, chances are I’ll love you too!!
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