Remember the Time

by Annette Reynolds

  Kate finally said, “I’ll think about it, okay?”

  He nodded.

  “I’ll let you know in a couple of days.”

  “Fine.” Mike stood. “Did you have enough to eat?”

  Kate handed him her plate. “Yes, thanks. It was wonderful.”

  Mike set the dishes in the sink and, with his back to her, asked, “Do you have a couple of minutes?”

  “Sure.”

  “Good. I wanted to show you the bedroom. It’s finally finished and I think there’s a piece in there you’ll really appreciate.”

  Mike had bought the gray-stuccoed Craftsman home three years ago. He’d paid next to nothing for the 1910 gem. Aside from a bad roof and years of neglect, it had survived the whims of renovation. All the interior woodwork was original and unpainted. The built-in sideboard in the dining room, the inglenook with its bench seat, the tiles around the fireplaces in the living room and master bedroom—all had been left untouched.

  Mike had replicated the original forest-green roof and painted the exterior trim the same color. The covered front porch that ran the width of the house also had the same sloped green roof and a gabled entry. The stucco had cracked along the face of the porch and Mike had done the patch work himself. And then he’d tackled the interior. It had taken him nearly two years to finish it to his satisfaction. Furnishing it came next. Gustav Stickley, one of the founders of the American Arts and Crafts movement, could have walked into Mike’s house and felt at home. It was that authentic.

  Kate followed him down the hallway and up the stairs, saying, “Don’t tell me you finally found that Stickley wardrobe you’d been hunting for?”

  “Better.” He stood aside to let her enter.

  “Better? How is that possible?”

  He pushed the light switch and listened to her intake of breath. She quickly walked to a medium-sized oak wardrobe and ran her fingers along the inlay.

  “A Crafters?” She bent down to inspect the brass handles. “God, it’s beautiful.” Then she looked around the room, her eyes stopping to caress each piece of mission-style furniture.

  Kate was enthralled by the bedroom. She’d been in it only one other time, when he’d first moved in, and she was stunned by the transformation. Kate walked the perimeter of the room, her hand lovingly stroking each piece, her eyes soothed by the warm light that reflected off the honey-colored furniture.

  “Mike,” she said in hushed tones. “It’s perfect.”

  “Almost,” he said, watching her.

  She continued her exploration and, almost as an afterthought, asked, “Almost? What else could you possibly need?”

  His heart beat faster, and he nearly told her then, but she looked over at him and smiled and he knew he couldn’t do it.

  “It’s perfect,” she repeated.

  “Glad you like it.”

  Kate sat on the bed and leaned back on her arms, letting her feet dangle above the simple design of the small wool rug. “If I lived here, I’d never leave this room.”

  The room suddenly got warmer and Mike propelled himself away from the wall he’d been leaning against. “I’ve got a spot I’m trying to fill in the den. Care to give me your opinion?”

  “Sure.” Kate hopped off the bed. “Lead the way, bwana.”

  “Y’know,” Mike was saying as they walked down the staircase, “I ran into Cindy a couple of weeks ago. She said the shop is doing pretty well.”

  “Amazing, isn’t it? I don’t remember the last time I was in there.”

  “Funny, she said exactly the same thing.” They had entered the room Mike used as his study. “Have you become the silent partner?”

  “No comment.”

  On her thirtieth birthday, Kate’s love of antiques and innate sense of style finally came together.

  “Rise and shine, birthday girl,” Paul whispers in her ear.

  She mumbles something and burrows deeper under the comforter.

  “Come on, you lazy woman.”

  “What time is it?”

  “Time to get up.” He rips the covers off the bed, exposing a naked Kate to the brilliant October day.

  She groans and covers her face with her hand. “Have a heart, Paul. I was up till three.”

  He stands next to the bed. “So was I.”

  “But you didn’t drink a whole bottle of champagne by yourself.” She squints through her fingers at him. “And you’re still mad, aren’t you.”

  “I guess I didn’t know they were holding auditions for the Solid Gold Dancers right here on Frazier Street.”

  Kate groans, remembering the spectacle she’d made of herself at her birthday party. “Why didn’t you stop me?”

  “You were a full three sheets to the wind. There wasn’t much I could do.”

  “I’m sorry,” she says. “I didn’t mean to embarrass you.”

  He finally sits next to her. Runs a hand down her thigh. “I’ve gotta admit, it was pretty sexy.”

  She savors the feel of his fingers on her skin. “I did it for you,” she whispers.

  “Well.” He bends to kiss her shoulder. “I just wish you’d saved it for later. Good thing I got to you just as you were taking off your jacket.”

  “Thank God for that,” she mutters. The velvet bolero she’d worn not only covered the lacy, sleeveless bodysuit with the lowcut back. It also covered her spine.

  “You don’t need to be ashamed of it, Kate.” Paul lifts her hair and places his lips on the nape of her neck. “It’s what makes you real.” His finger slowly traces the scar that runs, like a pale zipper, down the length of her back.

  The scar has been a part of her existence since she was twelve years old, and she hates it. It was a product of surgery to correct a curvature of the spine. After the operation, she’d had to live in a body cast for nearly a year. She’d been subjected to ferocious teasing because of it. The only good thing about it, as far as Kate was concerned, was her perfect posture. Other than that, the scar meant nothing but humiliation. But Paul sees what she refuses to see—that it has made her strong.

  “I just don’t want the whole world to know about it. Is that all right with you?” She’s turned over, only to get caught in the gaze of his hazel eyes.

  He smiles. “Your secret’s safe with me. And if you don’t get up right now and get dressed, you won’t get your present until tomorrow.”

  “Why tomorrow?”

  “ ’Cause that’s when I’ll be done making love to you.”

  “Is that a threat?” Her hand travels up his hard thigh until she can feel the start of his erection through his jeans. “Or a promise?”

  Some twenty minutes later, as Kate lies listening to the slowing of her husband’s heartbeat, she hears voices and the slamming of a car door outside. She’s forgotten that Mike and his current girlfriend have stayed the night, not wanting to drive back to Richmond after the party. All Kate wants to do is spend the day in bed with Paul, a rare occurrence these days. “Shit,” she murmurs under her breath.

  “Not your usual reaction.” Paul slowly lifts himself away from her. “By the way, Mike’s already up.”

  Kate closes her eyes in embarrassment. “I can’t face him.”

  “He took it pretty well,” Paul says, yawning. “It’s Sandra, or Susan, or whatever her name is, that seemed a little bent out of shape. But what can you expect from a theology professor?”

  Kate reaches for Paul’s arm. “I thought you were going to make love to me until tomorrow.” But he’s already pulling on his underwear.

  “Don’t you think you’d better say bye to Mike?”

  Kate slowly sits up, her head pounding, and wonders how much time will pass before the next time she and Paul make love. “Can’t we just stay in here until they leave? This was so nice …”

  His back to her, he zips up his pants. “What about your birthday present?”

  She could say, “All I want is the old Paul back,” but realizes she doesn’t know who that might be. And so sh
e says, “Tell him I’ll be down in a few minutes.”

  An hour after Mike and Sharon drive away, Kate sits in her car, one of Paul’s ties covering her eyes in a makeshift blindfold. As Paul opens the door for her, she says, “I can’t believe you’re putting me through this with the massive hangover I’ve got.”

  “I think you’ll find it was worth it,” Paul answers, taking her arm and helping her out of the car. He places something in her hand. It feels like a key. “Ready?”

  She nods, and he removes the blindfold.

  They stand in front of a two-story town house on Frederick Street. The simple Victorian building has recently been painted a pale seafoam green with white trim. The realty sign has a SOLD sticker slapped across it. A painted wooden sign hangs from the porch. It reads: Remember the Time.

  She doesn’t know what to make of this and turns to Paul, a question in her eyes.

  “You’re now a member of the Staunton business community.” He faces her and puts his arms around her waist. “Happy birthday, baby,” he says, kissing her.

  The shop had done well. Well enough for her to hire full-time help during the baseball season, when she and Paul lived in San Francisco. Well enough for Cindy Peters, Kate’s assistant, to buy into the business and become Kate’s partner. And well enough for Cindy to hire part-time help, because Kate rarely showed up after Paul’s death.

  But it had never felt like hers.

  Kate’s dream of owning an antique shop had come true without her having to lift a finger, and she’d resented the hell out of Paul for that. He’d found the building, bought it, picked the interior and exterior colors. He’d had all the renovations done. He’d said, “All you have to do is fill it up with stuff to sell.”

  She’d felt like a child whose school project had been usurped by well-meaning parents; as if they were the ones being graded. Paul had taken her dream out of her hands, made it reality, and in so doing, had taken away all the joy it should have brought. She had felt no sense of achievement. It was just another gift from Paul that wasn’t really hers to keep. Another bribe to placate her. As if the shop could ever make up for his infidelity.

  But she’d smiled at him. Pretended she was thrilled. It wouldn’t have done any good to do otherwise.

  It seemed she had nothing that was her very own. Except that damned scar.

  Now she watched as Mike spread his arms and indicated a five-foot space of empty wall in his study. “When I mentioned to Cindy that I was looking for a small sideboard, she said she’d try and locate one for me. I want to put it here.”

  “Does it have to be a sideboard? I mean, couldn’t you use a small bookcase more?” She eyed the stacks of books pushed against the wall, some of them three feet tall.

  “But I’ve got this lamp I really want to use.” Mike walked to a cabinet and bent to open the bottom door. “And I don’t think it’ll fit on a bookcase.” He pulled out a copper lamp base and set it on the floor while he continued searching for the shade. “What do you think?”

  Kate didn’t reply. She was suddenly, inexplicably fascinated by the jeans he wore. Well-worn, they looked as soft as chamois. They fit him loosely, but when he bent over they became a second skin.

  Mike located the mica shade and attached it to the base. “Kate?” He looked over his shoulder.

  “Huh?” Kate’s eyes lifted. “I’m sorry, Mike. What did you say?”

  “Do you think it’ll fit?”

  She thought it over for a moment. “Oh! You mean the lamp?”

  “What else would I mean?”

  Kate smiled and shook her head. “Nothing. Yes, I think it’ll fit.” She paused. “Did anyone ever tell you you have a very nice ass?”

  Stunned, Mike sat back.

  Kate grinned. “Don’t tell me you’re blushing?”

  A beat passed, and then Mike said, “As long as I’ve known you I’m constantly amazed by the fact that you never engage your brain before you open your mouth.”

  “I was just making an observation.”

  “How am I supposed to take that observation?”

  “It was a compliment. What did you think it was? A come-on?” She laughed, and wondered herself why she’d said it. “Just say ‘thank you.’ ”

  “Gee, thanks, Katie,” Mike said, standing. “Means a lot coming from you.”

  “I can’t believe no one in that harem you’ve had has ever told you that before.”

  “Not that it’s any of your business.”

  They walked out of the house together. Mike accompanied her to the street, where she thanked him again and continued toward her own house. She slowed down and then stopped in the middle of the street. Turning, she said, “I’ve decided.”

  He waited to find out what she was talking about. With Kate, it could be anything.

  “About the house, I mean. I want you to do it for me.”

  He knew better than to show his elation and, so, in a businesslike tone said, “Good. I’ll come by tomorrow morning and we can see what needs to be done.”

  She turned and raised her arm in a wave.

  CHAPTER

  NINE

  Kate entered the house and fought down a feeling of panic. She shouldn’t have said yes to Mike. She should have pretended to think it over, as she’d originally planned, and then told him no. She didn’t know what had come over her. Now it was too late. She’d committed herself.

  What was today? She checked the calendar with its color-coded dots that ordered her life. Red meant call Cindy at the shop. Blue was garbage day. Green was the day Homer got his heartworm pill. Yellow told her that the Orkin man was coming for the monthly spraying. On and on they went. A Technicolor march of time in a gray life.

  Her finger landed on Thursday, with its black dot.

  With the last of the weeds pulled, Kate sat back on her heels and brushed off her hands. There had only been a few this time, and she dropped them into the paper bag she’d brought with her. The yellow lilies she’d placed in the urns last month were unrecognizable and she pushed them into the bag as well. Reaching into the basket she always brought, Kate took out the plastic gallon jug of water and emptied it into the urns.

  Her stop at the florist shop this morning had yielded two dozen strawflowers and two large stems of sea holly. They followed the water into the vases. Finally, with a sponge she’d dampened with a little of the water, she wiped off the smooth granite stone. As always, she silently read the few words engraved on it.

  Paul Allen Armstrong, Jr.

  Born—June 6, 1959 Died—March 11, 1994

  Died March 11, 1994. The words circled in her mind, an endless tape loop of bad dreams and rainy days. Tragedy. The cemetery was her cathedral and the gravestone her confessional.

  Kate sat against the giant beech. It was the only tree whose leaves still clung to its branches. She gazed across the gentle hills of Thornrose Cemetery. Sunlight glinted off marble and granite. She was alone. Closing her eyes, she began talking, always with the same six words.

  “Baby, I miss you so much …” Today she intoned them like well-rehearsed dialogue. She knew her lines inside and out, but after countless performances they’d begun to lose their meaning for her. Instead of the heartfelt plea they’d been, they’d become just words.

  “Baby, I miss you so much,” she repeated, trying to recapture the anguish she’d felt that first year of his death. “I had some really bad days this month …”

  As Kate “spoke” to Paul, she tried to conjure up an image of his face. It got harder all the time, frightening her. But, finally, there it was. Clear, hazel eyes peering out from under an impossibly thick fringe of golden lashes. Even in his twenties, his eyes crinkled at the corners when he laughed. In the summer, his light brown hair and eyebrows became gilded by the sun. He’d always kept his hair short, but not cropped. He’d had to contend with a slight wave in it all his life. His ears lay flat against his head, showing off the strong lines of his jaw. His mouth had a perpetually amused lift to
it. His lips were remarkably sensuous. When he smiled, he revealed teeth that were the product of thousands of dollars’ worth of orthodontia. His smile also revealed the dimple on the right side of his cheek.

  She could see it all now, and she smiled back at the portrait that her mind allowed her to view.

  “Hey, Katie! Look at this!”

  She follows his voice into the living room of the hotel suite where the Giants have put them up. He has pulled the heavy curtains to reveal a sparkling view of San Francisco Bay, the twin red towers of the Golden Gate Bridge just visible above the buildings that surround the Embarcadero. Draping his arm over her shoulder, he points out Alcatraz Island to her.

  She smiles at his excitement. “Where is it?”

  “South of here,” he answers, knowing she means Candlestick Park. “God! Can you believe we’re really here?”

  “I’m not surprised,” she says, putting her arms around his waist. “You’re a great ballplayer. Anyone can see that.”

  Paul has gone from single A ball to triple A ball to the majors in two seasons. He is a phenomenon that has made the Giants’ scouting staff look like geniuses, and the Giants’ owner wet his pants. At the tender age of twenty-two he is the Giants’ starting second baseman.

  Everything comes easy to Paul Armstrong. Not that he doesn’t appreciate it. He does. But he’s also come to expect it.

  Raised in an upper-middle-class home, with a father, mother, and sister who have always looked on him as their All-American Golden Boy, he can do no wrong.

  Paul Allen Armstrong, Sr., made his money through hard work and good business sense. The small sporting goods store he’d started has turned into a small empire that stretches across Virginia and Maryland. Paul had worked in the Staunton shop since the age of twelve. His parents supported his baseball habit that began in Little League. When coaches started telling his father the boy had real talent, he focused all his energy on helping his son, and the boy had come through.

  He had the satisfaction of seeing his son conquer high school ball and, on the basis of excellent grades and incredible ability, win a scholarship to James Madison University. Paul was drafted by the San Francisco Giants in his first year.