Kate raised one eyebrow in a perfect imitation of Vivien Leigh’s Scarlett. “Isn’t it funny how I come in here feeling like I’ve been in a fight, and leave feeling like I lost it?”
“Go home. Take a hot bath in some Epsom salts. The pain’ll go away,” Sheryl said with a smile as she left the room.
Kate stayed on the table for a few more seconds. As she pulled the sheet aside, she whispered, “The pain never goes away, Sheryl.”
Not wanting to go home, and not wanting to deal with humanity in general, Kate wound her way through the tiny maze of one-way streets that made up Staunton. She drove past the turn for her house until she saw the entrance to Gypsy Hill Park, then turned into the gate. Slowly guiding the car past the duck pond, Kate was pleased to see only two other cars stopped along the edges of the park. She pulled into a space and turned off the engine. A little girl and her mother were feeding the ducks and geese at the far end of the pond. What seemed like hundreds of waterfowl packed themselves together near the fence, and the quacking was deafening as the little girl tried to keep up with the demand for more bread. Kate could see the look of delight on the child’s face. She turned and walked the other way.
Gypsy Hill Park was situated on a long, thin strip of land that had been bought by the city at the turn of the century. The thick carpet of red, yellow, and brown leaves that Kate sank into with every step attested to the fact that the founders had planned well. The cedars provided the only patches of dusky green at eye level, while the grass, where it was visible, was the brilliant shade that comes just before the first frost.
Hands in the pockets of her light jacket, Kate strolled past the municipal pool, emptied and covered. The tiny train that children rode in the summer, with its shrill whistle and chugging sounds, had been put in its shed, and the oval track had disappeared under a layer of leaves. Then she came to the Little League field.
Idly running her hand along the chain-link fence as she walked around it, Kate stopped when she reached the other side. The only stand of metal bleachers beckoned her and she sat. Four years ago Paul had donated the bleachers and an electric scoreboard, and her head filled with the sounds of hundreds of children pushing and shouting to get near Paul as the dedication took place. Her eyes, on the other hand, filled with tears. There was nowhere in Staunton she could go without a memory crowding aside any pleasure. She angrily swiped at her cheeks with the back of her hand and stood.
Damn baseball! She wanted to scream it at the top of her lungs. Baseball had taken away her husband in every sense. He’d never been around when she needed him. Always on the road. There had never been any permanence in their lives. They’d divided their time among three cities: Phoenix in the spring, San Francisco in the summer, Staunton in the winter. They were never in any of them long enough to really settle in. This wasn’t something she’d considered in the beginning of their life together. And in the end, he’d died because of baseball. Paul would still be alive if spring training hadn’t taken him to Phoenix. If he hadn’t been friends with Mitch Browder. If Mitch hadn’t been into rock collecting. If, if, if …
Kate hated the game with all her soul. It was an active, festering boil of a hatred that seethed just below the surface of her every waking moment, whether she admitted it to herself or not. It was a primary focus in her life.
Walking quickly now, Kate made a beeline back to her car. She knew the bandstand was up ahead, its back to the duck pond. She didn’t want to see it. Didn’t want to deal with those memories, either. And so she dredged up bad ones. By the time she reached her house, bitterness was beginning to bore a hole into her skull. Kate couldn’t wait to dam it with a couple, or twelve, aspirin.
CHAPTER
FIVE
Kate left the car parked in front of the house and went up the front steps. A piece of pink paper tacked to one side of the door fluttered in the afternoon breeze. She didn’t bother looking at it, but simply snatched it from its tiny anchor. In one fluid motion she had crumpled the flier, stuffed it in her handbag, put the key in the lock, and let herself in.
The house was so quiet she could actually hear the blood rushing through the veins in her head. As she got closer to the kitchen, another sound, more familiar and possibly more annoying, reached her ears. The faucet was dripping again. Dropping her purse on the table, Kate reached for the economy-sized bottle of aspirin she kept on a lazy Susan and shook out three tablets. She stared at the white pills in her palm, shrugged, and took one more from the bottle. The cupboard she kept the glasses in was empty. The dishwasher was full, and needed running.
“Shit.”
Kate picked up a mug that had held coffee two days ago and made a face. Finally, out of desperation, she opened another cabinet and took out a glass measuring cup. Filling it with water from the tap, she swallowed the tablets, and then watched as the interval between drips grew shorter.
“Oh, I really need this,” she said to herself, flinging open a drawer and pulling out a pair of pliers. She tightened down the faucet handle and the drops of water came to a stop. Satisfied with her handiwork, she tossed the pliers back in the drawer and went into the den. She found a Fred Astaire movie on television and curled up on the sofa.
The breeze blowing in from the open window had turned chilly and it woke her. The stiffness in her back brought an involuntary groan, a sound she never remembered making when she was younger. Like gray hairs and laugh lines that suddenly appeared in her mid-thirties, so these new noises came, too.
The telephone that sat on the end table jangled. It was an old rotary phone from the forties, and she always swore she could see it wiggle and dance as the bell rang. Her cartoon phone. When she picked up, there was no one on the other end. This was a regular occurrence. The C & P Telephone Company, which stood for Chesapeake and Potomac but which most residents called Cheapskate and Poky, also seemed to date back to the forties. Kate hung up and waited for it to ring again. And it did.
“Kate? It’s Mike. Didn’t you see my note?”
“What note?” She could tell by the silence that Mike had closed his eyes in annoyance, and she said, “I heard that”
“I left a note by your front door.”
“Where?” She continued to bait him.
“On a pushpin right next to the door. It was on a pink flyer for the SPCA Thrift Shop.”
“I guess I didn’t realize it was something important. What did it say?”
He picked up her mood. His voice, a well-moderated blend of East Coast inflection with just a touch of Virginia gentleman, took on a slight Irish lilt. Kate called it his leprechaun voice. “They’re havin’ their annual half-off sale this weekend.”
“What are you talking about?”
She didn’t seem to be amused. He must have misjudged her. “Never mind. The gist of the note is that Homer is over here visiting me.”
She sighed. “I thought it was a little too quiet.”
“He got through that hole in the fence again. I can fix it for you, if you want.” There was no reply. “Or not. Do you want me to bring him over?”
“If you must.”
“I’m afraid I must. Are you decent?”
She smiled at that. It was a very old joke between them. “Never. Come on over.”
Kate was still sitting on the couch when the front door opened four minutes later. She heard Homer’s toenails scrabble across the hardwood floor of the entry hall as he raced to the kitchen, and his food bowl. He never understood why it wasn’t perpetually full.
Mike’s voice reached her. “Kate? Where are you?”
“In here.”
“Where?”
“Just follow the sound of my voice.”
“My, we’re in a good mood,” Mike said, entering the den. He took in her rumpled shirt and puffy eyes. Her dark auburn hair, which usually hung in gleaming waves to her shoulders, had been pulled back in a barrette that now stuck out at an angle. Wisps of hair had escaped and formed odd cowlicks. “And you got all doll
ed up just for me. You really shouldn’t have.”
“Nice to see you, too.” As she spoke the words, her hands went to the barrette and removed it. She ran her fingers through her hair. “I was taking a nap.”
Mike leaned against the built-in bookcase and folded his arms across his chest. “Late dinner for two last night?”
Kate eyed him for a split second, then retorted, “Yeah, me and David Letterman.”
“Y’know, if you actually went to sleep before two A.M. you wouldn’t wake up feeling like crap every day.”
“Don’t start, Mike. And not that it’s any of your business, but I do go to sleep before two A.M.”
“Falling asleep on the couch with the TV on isn’t what I’d call getting a good night’s sleep.”
Almost too weary to argue, Kate fixed him with a look that would crumble stone. “I don’t need another mother, thanks. And how the hell do you know where I sleep?”
“I got in late last night. Saw the light.”
“What is it with you Fitzgeralds? If you’re going to lecture me like I’m a child, then you can go home now.”
Not wanting to be banished, he unfolded his arms and held them up in surrender. “Hey, I’m sorry. Can we start over?”
Kate looked down at the carpet. “Yeah, sorry. It’s been a bad day.” Her head came up and she tried to smile. “I could use a cup of coffee. Want one?”
Mike angled his body into one of the kitchen chairs and, with his foot, pulled another chair toward him and propped his long legs on it. Homer, always glad for any company, sat at his side and let Mike scratch his head.
Kate measured coffee into the filter and then took the carafe to the sink. Forgetting the cold water tap was practically welded shut, she grunted when it wouldn’t turn. Swearing under her breath, she set the pot down to free both hands. It still wouldn’t budge and Mike, hiding a grin, asked, “Can I get that for you?”
“Thanks, but I can do it,” she answered, removing the pliers from the drawer again.
He shook his head, but didn’t say anything.
Once the coffee was perking, Kate realized she still hadn’t started the dishwasher. Pulling two mugs out of the top rack, she began washing them.
“Are you sure this isn’t too much trouble? We could always go to the Beverley.”
Kate turned and gave him a warning look as she dried the mugs with a paper towel. All the dishcloths were in the dryer.
Setting a mug on the table next to him, she asked, “You take milk, right?”
He nodded and watched her open the refrigerator. She stood in front of it for what seemed a very long time, and Mike suddenly understood why. “Hey, I can drink it black if you’re out.”
“No!” Her voice wavered momentarily. “No, I must have something you can use.”
Mike’s legs slipped off the chair and he sat up. “It’s okay. Really.”
She had closed the door, and moved to the cupboards, her hands pushing aside cans and jars. Mike stood as she began frantically pawing through drawers. When her fingers closed around a small packet, she felt triumphant, until she saw it was a Wash’n Dri. Slamming it down on the counter, the tears finally came. Mike’s hand on her shoulder made her flinch.
“Stop it, Kate. Forget it.”
“I know I’ll find something,” she said between sobs.
“Katie, darlin’, I can’t stand to see you like this.”
Her voice took on a hard edge. “Then go home, ’cause this is what I am now.”
It took all the strength he had not to pull her to him. “I don’t think you need to be alone.”
“I think I know what I need.”
“Christ, but you are pigheaded.” He took a deep breath. “Do you really want me to go?” he asked, not wanting to hear her answer.
She nodded. “Yeah—go.”
He stared at the back of her head before turning away. He left the way he came. It took her a few moments to realize she’d forgotten to thank him for bringing Homer back. Picking up one of the two clean mugs, she flung it across the room. It hit the stovetop, shattering. Homer slunk out of the room, leaving her alone. It was what she wanted, after all. Wasn’t it?
CHAPTER
SIX
He had loved her—no, make that obsessed over her—for as long as he could remember. It was their junior year. She had walked into their English class that first week of October—her family had just moved to the area—and she captured the heart of every male in the room.
The teacher introduces her as Kathleen Moran and asks her to tell the class a little about herself. With a tremendous amount of poise, she walks to the teacher’s desk, puts down her purse and books, and speaks.
“Hi. I just moved here from Oklahoma but I was born in Pennsylvania. My father just retired from the army and we’re in Staunton because he’s going to be teaching at the military academy. This is the eighth school I’ve gone to, but so far it seems like the friendliest.” She looks at the faces watching her and notices a familiar one. It is a girl named Chris who lives across the street from her. They have already spoken and so she focuses on her when she says, “I’ve lived in five states and one foreign country but I’ve never seen any place as pretty as Staunton. And, by the way, everyone calls me Kate.”
Her smile encompasses the entire room. It is impossible not to smile back at her. The boys have seen all they need to know about Kate Moran. Their minds are filled with ideas on how to make this auburn-haired beauty feel welcome. The girls’ minds, however, are filled with other, less-than-charitable, ideas. And yet they find themselves smiling at her, too. Chris, Kate’s first acquaintance, has already spread the word about this newcomer but nothing has prepared them for what she looks like. Chris’s assessment of the situation had been, “You won’t like her when you see her, but once you talk to her she’s pretty cool.”
The teacher waits for the whispers to subside, then says, “Maybe you can tell us some of your interests.”
Kate has already picked up her belongings from the teacher’s desk and is walking toward an empty desk, when she tosses off, “Oh, I like rock music, reading, antiques. But I love baseball.” She carefully slides her miniskirted body into the seat. All male eyes move their field of vision down a foot. “Especially the San Francisco Giants.” Kate takes a pencil out of her purse, opens her spiral notebook and looks up at the teacher expectantly.
“Yes. Well. Thank you, Kate.” He has to physically pull himself away from her dark blue eyes. “We’re glad to have you here.”
Paul Armstrong leans forward and taps Mike on the shoulder. The two have been best friends since the third grade, and Mike knows what Paul is going to say before the words are out of his mouth.
“I think I’m in love,” Paul whispers. It is his standard remark, made in his usual offhand way. This time he means it.
“You and me both, bud. Think she can handle the Dynamic Duo?” comes Mike’s conditioned response. He keeps his voice light, but his heart feels heavy. He really wants this one, but Kate Moran seems to be made for Paul. And they agreed a long time ago not to let a girl get in the way of their friendship.
What did they know at the age of sixteen? They were young and stupid. And in the end it didn’t really matter anyway. Kate had come into the lives of Paul and Mike not knowing the rules, and when Paul Armstrong saw her that crisp October day, the rule book got tossed out the window.
Mike held a glass of J & B as he stared out the bay window in his bedroom. With all the leaves off the trees, he had a clear view of her house. The only light he could see came from the den. It seemed to be the only room she used anymore. His sister had told him that she hadn’t slept in the bedroom she’d shared with Paul since his death. Kate kept her clothes there and used it as a rather large dressing room, but that was it.
There was a living room and dining room. Both were formal. Packed with antiques that Kate had collected throughout her travels with Paul, they reminded Mike of some of the historic homes he’d visit
ed. Filled with beautiful furnishings, but never used, they seemed like stage settings waiting for the players to make their entrance and bring them to life. Paul and Kate used to give legendary parties. Now, no one entered those rooms.
She had two guest rooms on the second floor. They were at the back of the house and he guessed she slept in one of them, when she wasn’t using the couch in the den. Like most Victorian houses, it had one very large bathroom on the second floor, and a very tiny WC on the main floor. And, finally, there was the little tower room. He’d been in it only once, when he and Paul had moved some old boxes of papers out of the den. It had been in the dead of winter and they could see their breath as they piled the five years’ worth of tax paperwork in a corner. At the time it seemed that the room contained all the usual things people had in their attics … Christmas decorations, old clothing that no one wanted, a shelf covered with magazines and broken things that needed mending but no one ever got around to.
Mike brought the highball glass to his lips and sipped the scotch. The ice had melted. It tasted like warm medicine and he grimaced. Finishing it in one gulp, he turned from the window and went back downstairs to wait for Sheryl and his nephew, Matt. He hadn’t seen the boy in nearly a year and he was looking forward to it. He had wanted to invite Kate over, too. That was, rather apparently, out of the question.
He was in the kitchen fixing himself another drink when he heard the front door slam and a shout. Smiling, Mike shouted back, “In the kitchen!”
A tall, well-built young man appeared in the doorway with an astonishingly similar smile on his face.
“Christ, did you get taller?”
Matt grinned. “No—I think you’re shrinking.”
Mike snorted as he put an arm around his nephew. “Where’s your mom?” he asked, handing Matt a Coke. He motioned for him to sit at the table.
“She said to tell you she’d be here later.”
“So.” Mike sat across the table from Matt. “Judging from your stats, you had a pretty good season.”
Remember the Time Page 3