Reunion

by Therese Fowler

  “But all’s well that ends well, right?”

  Part 4

  Make the most of your regrets …

  To regret deeply is to live afresh.

  HENRY DAVID THOREAU

  30

  n Friday afternoon, Key West welcomed Julian with soft rainfall. The air was rich with the smell of it as he got out of his grandparents’ car. Everything was so lush, so green that he wanted to cry.

  Water dripped from the heavy palm fronds overhead and he stood still, letting it stream down his hair and into his collar. A pair of Saffron Finches flitted past him, landing on the porch rail and shaking the water from their golden feathers before flitting off again.

  “Coming, J?” Lynn asked, standing beneath her umbrella.

  “In a sec.”

  “All right. I’ll tell Daniel we’re here. Come in whenever you’re ready.”

  He feared he would never be ready, that he would lie down on the flagstone driveway and close his eyes and when they came to find him later, he would have melted away.

  Wishful thinking?

  There had been, after all, no reply from Blue.

  He’d heard she would be here for the weekend to start planning the work she wanted done to her house. Lynn said they’d spoken early this morning, that Blue had inquired about him.

  He was glad of that, and glad that she had, apparently, kept his email in confidence. It was even possible she’d never received it. His hope that she’d never received it was almost as strong as his fear that she had. From the moment he’d sent it, he’d vacillated about whether he’d done the right thing. It had seemed right when he didn’t know for certain he’d leave that Golan alive. It seemed less so when he was strapped into the helicopter for the long, loud ride back to the base. What had he hoped to accomplish, really?

  Rain was dripping from his nose; how long had he been standing here? He should get his gear and go in. He looked toward the house and saw Daniel waiting there on the porch, watching him.

  Daniel said, “Wha’cha doing?”

  “Nothing.”

  “That I can see. Lynn’s got a towel warming in the dryer for you.”

  Julian wiped the rain from his face, slicking his hair back. “Tell her I’ll be in soon. I … I think I’m going to take a walk first.”

  “Right now? I thought you might want to call your dad. Hey, did your grandmother tell you that your dad and Blue—”

  “I just need to get a little exercise,” he interrupted, heading off any chat about Blue. “Too much sitting, you know?”

  “All right, then. Take an umbrella.”

  Julian shook his head. He was already backing down the driveway. “This feels good to me.”

  “Well, you have to do what feels good, I’ve always said so, haven’t I?”

  Julian nodded, waved, and turned to go.

  Daniel’s support was the thing that had many times before kept him standing, moving forward. Sometimes that forward motion was down a questionable path, yet Daniel had let him go, trusting him to know his own mind or to be able to determine it along the way. It had worked before; now, though, he half wished Daniel would lasso him and pull him back because he could see already that the path was entirely dark.

  He went anyway.

  As he left the driveway and began walking west, he tried to let go of the questions in his mind and just absorb the warmth and weight of the falling rain. The questions, however, would not let go of him. What, for example, was he doing with his life? Yes, he was a working photojournalist; he was, sometimes, a documentary filmmaker. What he’d been doing, though, was roaming from one natural disaster or political or social train wreck to another, documenting, cataloging, moving on, sometimes illuminating things for others but never, it seemed, for himself.

  All these years he’d been photographing people in order to connect them with others, all the while remaining disconnected himself. There was, he thought ruefully, something wrong with that picture.

  And this bit about Blue: wasn’t that just one more example of how he set himself up to remain disconnected? A psychiatrist—or Alec, who’d been as good as one over the years—would probably say so. An attraction to yet another woman with whom there was no chance of forming a permanent bond, or at least not the sort of bond he’d had in mind.

  He crossed a street, not avoiding the puddles, hardly hearing the rooster crowing from a nearby shed’s roof. He wiped the water from his face and walked on, thinking that his attraction to Blue might be an unconscious strategy of distancing himself from his father—maybe he’d created a certain impossibility that guaranteed he’d continue to keep away, and for what? He thought he wanted to be closer to him, but if that was true, how could he have let himself fall for Blue?

  If he could answer that question, he might be able to escape the lunacy that had him out here psychoanalyzing himself in what was now rumbling thunder and a steady rain.

  Not until he heard a squawk, saw the flutter of bright red wings as a macaw disappeared into a nearby tree, did he see that he’d come to the corner across from Blue’s house. The macaw, possibly the one she’d mentioned before, perched itself on the high branch of a mango tree in the middle of her yard. He crossed the street slowly, keeping his eye on the macaw, wishing he had brought his camera. The bird’s colors were as vibrant and saturated as he could ever hope to make them appear after the fact.

  The wall surrounding her yard, when he was next to it, was too high to see over, so he went to the gate—and discovered he was not the only one watching the bird.

  There was a moment, then, just before Blue, on her porch, turned and saw him. A moment when he might have been able to back away without being seen. A moment when he had a clear and brilliant view of where that escape path would lead. A clear, brilliant view, where there was nothing to see.

  31

  he couldn’t hide her surprise and didn’t try. “What are you doing here?” It came out sounding all wrong, like an accusation. It was the shock of it, the assault to her senses; he was drenched, and gaunt, and more beautiful, with those wide, searching eyes, than she recalled.

  “I had the same question for you. I’m sorry—I didn’t mean to intrude. I saw the macaw, and—well, I’ll leave you alone—”

  “No, it’s okay,” she backpedaled. “You startled me is all.” Her cell phone was ringing inside the house. She ignored it.

  “Right,” Julian said. “I mean, who’d be out in this weather?”

  And why? “Come on,” she waved him in and watched the flex of his bicep, his shoulder, revealed under his soaked tee, as he lifted the gate’s latch. She noted the trim taper of his waist down to solid hips, muscled thighs hinted at, inside clinging wet jeans, as he came up the path. He was so … alive. Tangible. Present.

  It was all right to admire and appreciate him, to feel affection toward him, especially after what he’d been through—a person would have to be heartless not to. Everything else she felt for him had to be dismissed, and if she couldn’t manage that, disguised. Her reaction to him, this warmth in her belly, this urge to pull his T-shirt over his head and lap the water droplets from his skin, this was more the result of her long-running sexual drought than anything about him, surely. It was infatuation at most. A resistible whim. Was that plausible? She needed it to be plausible, or how could she be near him and not betray herself?

  As he climbed the steps to the porch, she avoided his eyes, turning away and going for the door. “Come on in, I’ll see if I have anything you can use to dry off.”

  “Thanks, but I don’t want to get your floors wet.”

  “Oh, right, okay, I’ll be right back.” Inside, she was away from the edge of the abyss, she was safe.

  “You playing hooky today?” he called through the screen.

  “You could say that.”

  Peter had been dumbfounded when she’d spoken with him this morning, said she’d come down to Key West, told him to cancel today’s show. Then he recovered enough to sputter
, “You need me to do what?”

  “Peter, I’m calling in sick, all right?”

  “No! Today’s show took four months to coordinate—I’ll never be able to get it together twice.”

  “Then it just won’t happen,” she’d snapped. “Get over it.”

  Briefly, she’d had second thoughts, third thoughts, even, but dismissed them. It was her show. She could take an unscheduled day off for her mental health. The world would not stop turning just because TBRS had broadcast a rerun without warning.

  She checked her phone: Marcy—Marcy could wait. Then she searched the cabinets, closets, and pantry and found nothing more absorbent than a can of Ajax. Julian would just have to drip-dry.

  He was sitting on the porch step when she went back outside. “I hate to say it, but unless you want to roll around on the bedroom carpet, there’s not a thing inside to dry off with.” She regretted the words the second they were out; she sounded lewd. This was how her subconscious worked?

  “Thanks for checking anyway,” he said, either not noticing, or pretending not to.

  The macaw remained in the tree, preening. “He’s so gorgeous.” She sat down, leaving two feet between herself and Julian. If only the steps were wider.

  “Your garden here must be part of his territory.”

  “Mmm. I only hope my cat won’t scare him away when we’re here for the summer. Peep—my cat—and me, that is.” Smooth. “I’ll have to think up a name for him. The bird, I mean.” She knew she was jabbering, and pressed her nails into her palms. Having him this close, where she could smell the rain and the musk on his skin, made her heart pound, truly pound. It was crazy.

  It was wonderful.

  She wanted to feel his arms wrapped around her, his hips against hers, his hands in the small of her back. She wanted to know everything about him, down to the smallest details: How often did he trim his toe-nails? What did he think of the current president? Was there phantom pain where his finger was missing? Had he ever read Gulliver’s Travels? Did he think baths were only for women? Had anyone ever told him a person could lose herself in his eyes?

  Her nails dug into her palms.

  She could hear her phone ringing again, and let the call go to voice-mail. This might be her last chance to be this close to Julian, one final happy accident of crossed paths before they went their separate ways.

  He seemed preoccupied, which was lucky for her. They might yet get through this encounter without her embarrassing herself and, potentially, annihilating her relationship with Daniel and Lynn, which was the one gift that she could keep. She’d essentially ditched their son, but she was sure no one was going to hold that against her. They would not so easily get over hearing she was infatuated with their grandson. Their grandson. God help her.

  He said, “I heard about Lions. I guess my father’s pretty excited.”

  “You haven’t talked to him?”

  “Not yet. In one of his emails he’d said he might be coming down with you—”

  “No,” she said, probably too quickly. “There was some talk, after the benefit dance. But he and I, well, we decided we weren’t…”

  “Compatible.” he said.

  “Right.”

  “Yes, my grandmother mentioned that too.”

  She waited for some criticism, some chastisement for having led Mitch on. All he did, though, was nod thoughtfully.

  “So …” she said, “is your schedule all cleared to shoot more of Lions this summer, or …”

  “Actually, I’m not certain that’s what I want to do next.”

  “No? Well, I imagine you have all kinds of options …”

  He turned to look at her, biting on his thumbnail as he did. “You get my email?”

  Startled, she nodded. Not only had she gotten it, she had it, folded into a square and tucked in the front pocket of her shorts. “I was—” terrified “very concerned for you. I’m so—” grateful “glad you all got back safely.”

  “Not all,” he said, looking away. In a careful, even voice he described for her the narrow hillside road, the boys on the bridge, the single sniper shot, the helplessness. “I … I wasn’t sure who would get there first.”

  “Oh, Julian.” She wanted to hold him. Why couldn’t she hold him? What sort of cosmic joke was this? The impossibility of the situation was torturous.

  She had to get hold of herself. “Well,” she said, “it was generous of you to send that email. But really, you didn’t need to apologize. I understand how strange it’s been for you, my interfering with Lions and,” she glanced at him; he looked puzzled. “That is,” she added with less confidence, “it’s natural to be protective of your dad—”

  “Right,” he said. “Sure, protective.” His voice lacked conviction, and he wouldn’t look at her.

  “I’m sorry—am I being presumptuous?”

  “No. It’s not that.” Looking out into the garden, he was silent for a long moment, and then he said, “I was sitting there in Iraq, in the truck, composing the email… because, the thing is, I may not have much, but I do have my principles … and, I decided, I couldn’t risk you not knowing how I felt. Feel.” He looked at her again. “So let me just say—”

  There was a flash, then, that she mistook at first as lightning, accompanied not by thunder but by banging on the gate that made them both jump.

  “Ms. Reynolds! Your reaction to the Drudge Retort?”

  Icy dread washed over her. She stood up, shielding Julian from the view of a man with a camera, and his companion, a woman with a thick ponytail and an expression she knew well as one she’d worn herself, in her hungrier days.

  She tried to look composed as she said, “I’m sorry?”

  The woman shifted her umbrella so that she could make a note on a small pad. “You’re apologizing for attempting to bribe your midwife’s daughter into turning over confidential records?”

  What? Blue’s every nerve thrummed as if the flash really had been lightning striking nearby. She stepped to the edge of the porch and said quite calmly, “No, I’m sorry that I don’t know what you’re talking about—neither Drudge nor … who did you say?”

  Julian came up behind her and put his hand on her arm. The camera flashed again. “What’s this about?”

  “Nothing. I don’t know. Stay here.”

  The woman made another note as the camera flashed again, and again as Blue left the porch and walked toward them. Despite her instruction, Julian followed, so she let him; now was not the time to make a scene.

  “Ms. Reynolds—or do you prefer Kucharski?—are you confirming or denying the report?”

  “I truly don’t know what you’re talking about. I haven’t seen any of today’s news.” Thank God for the rain; in better light they’d see the vein throbbing on her temple and the flush rising on her skin.

  “According to Drudge, who followed up on another website’s report, you offered one hundred thousand dollars for the names of the couple who adopted your son when you were nineteen.”

  Not one hundred, and how in the world… ? “I wouldn’t know anything about that,” she said evenly. Her stomach churned, and she felt as if she might vomit at any moment.

  “And nothing at all,” the woman continued as the rain that was soaking Blue drummed on her umbrella, “about the website’s photographs of you at approximately seven months pregnant,” she held up a copy of the photo but Blue couldn’t make it out, “or your son,” a second photo, “shortly after his birth.”

  Photographs. She could feel the hook pricking her flesh and yet she could not stop herself from going to the gate for a closer look. The reporter continued to hold them up—out of reach, of course.

  No question, the frizzy-haired pregnant girl was her. Presumably the other photo was the real thing too.

  He was so tiny …

  She kept her face blank and turned back toward the house, taking Julian’s hand when she reached him so that he’d come too. Already he was closer to the gate, to the photos, tha
n she liked.

  The reporter banged the gate’s latch. “Come on, Ms. Reynolds. It’s Drudge on your tail. Why not let me quote you as apologizing—it’ll go a long way toward making you look sympathetic.”

  Her mind raced. She stopped and turned. “Oh. My lawyers will want to know the website those pictures are on; would you write it down for me?”

  The photographer smirked. “A shorter list would be the ones they’re not on by now.”

  “Originally,” Blue said.

  The reporter was giving nothing away. “You’ll want to know that someone’s unhappy with your,” she glanced at her notebook, “‘over-liberal, soul-damaging beliefs and the terrible example you set for today’s youth.’”

  “Look, Ms.—”

  “Dana Coogan.”

  “Look, I know you’re eager to scoop an interview here, but I have nothing to say. This is all baseless, and until I get to the bottom of it, my official comment is ‘no comment.’”

  It took everything she had in her to turn slowly, to walk past Julian and back up the steps, to go inside without appearing to be upset or hurried. She was Blue Reynolds, not some intimidated, angered easy mark for a wet-behind-the-ears reporter.

  Blue Reynolds was in trouble.

  32

  lue’s measured, silent retreat into the house made it clear she had nothing more to tell the reporter. Julian, fighting his confusion, strode to the gate.

  “What the hell kind of person are you, ambushing her that way? Get out of here.”

  “We’re not trespassing,” the reporter said. “Your name, for the record?”

  “Fuck off.”

  “Charming,” she said, but she wouldn’t meet his eyes. “Let’s go,” she told the photographer. “That’s enough.”

  “That’s right,” Julian said. He had the primal urge to throw himself against the gate in a show of aggression, even as he had, too, the unsettling fear that he was shielding Blue from some threat that he absolutely needed to see.

  He walked back to the porch, replaying the scene. She’d denied everything, but he’d had a good enough view of the photograph to know its subject was a dead ringer for a teenage Blue Reynolds. It could be her … And if so, she had a kid somewhere in the world, a kid who would be about ten years younger than himself.