Central Park Rendezvous

by Kim Vogel Sawyer

  It’s no risk when you think it’s impossible.

  Ouch. Admittedly, she’d harbored the idea that if he couldn’t find Gail after almost forty years, nobody could. The thought of his being gone, not being there for her, of the fuzzy warmth of his laughter…

  “I hear You, God,” she whispered, her breath puffing out in front of her face. “But… what do You want me to do?”

  Bow Bridge loomed to her right, tucked aside and austere, elegant. Uncle Alan was supposed to meet Gail there….

  Sean Wolfe surged to the front of her mind, the eyes that held both pain and gentility, the deep voice that was smooth yet terse.

  “Okay, Lord,” she said as she detoured toward the bridge, “if You want me to get to know Sean, let him show up here.”

  Fleece praying wasn’t the best route to knowing the will of God, but…

  “‘It’s no risk when you think it’s impossible,’” she said, repeating the words she heard in her heart. Yeah. Sean showing up here, at nearly ten o’clock? Impossible. Leaning on the stone rail, Jamie gazed out over the lake, glistening and reflecting the lights of the city hovering nearby. With a sigh, she set out for her apartment, for her Bible. She needed to dig out some answers about not living in fear. And spend some face time in prayer. Fingers trailing the rail, she admired the blanket of stars and the Fingernail-of-God moon.

  Peace filled her. She sighed and stepped off the bridge.

  “Jamie?”

  Sean slowed to a stop, his breath chugging. Hand on his chest, he tried to still his pounding heart. And it wasn’t from the rigorous run he’d just taken. She looked amazing, even with shock written all over her face. Bent, he held his knees to catch his breath, peering up at her through his brows.

  “Sean?” She wet her lips. Looked around. “What… what are you doing here?”

  “Out for a run,” he said as he straightened. “Wanted to clear my head.”

  After meeting with his friend and getting a job—sort of, if you called tinkering on junkers a job—he’d made his way back to Aunt Mitzi’s condo. Sitting there, nothing to do, no transportation, no purpose, drove him to reading those letters. But that had pushed his irritation through the roof. And he found himself here. Staring at her retreating form. Though he’d told himself not to say anything, his body—again—betrayed him by calling out to her.

  “At ten o’clock at night?”

  He lifted a shoulder then motioned at the path. “Headed home?”

  She glanced down the sidewalk for several seconds. Long seconds. Then looked at him. Why did she look frightened? Had something scared her? Something primal rose up in him.

  “Want me to walk you home?”

  “I…”

  So he’d been wrong. What he’d taken for interest, for understanding, was pity. “Know what? Never mind.” Sean ducked his head. “I’ll catch you later.” What an idiot. Thinking she’d like him. One would think a piece of shrapnel had hit his brain, not his neck. His sneakers grated on the dirt as he shifted back the way he’d come.

  “Did you read more letters?”

  He slowed at her words. Turned.

  She stood, a hand on the balustrade, eyes wide. Her long, graceful throat processed a swallow. Was she scared? Of him?

  “You know—the letters I gave you, from your grandfather. Did you read more?”

  How did she know the letters had pushed him out of the condo and into the cold night? “Yeah, as a matter of fact, I did.” Using his arm, he swiped the sweat from his face.

  Jamie took a few rigid steps toward the path then glanced back at him.

  A silent invitation.

  Sean acknowledged her cue, jamming his hands into the pockets of his jacket as he joined her. Man, this felt good—right. Too right. His insides squeezed and left his courage in the fetal position.

  “Earlier you’d said the letters brought up bad memories. I’m surprised you read more.”

  “Well, like someone told me, we need the bad to see the good.” In fact, the conviction he felt from those words nudged him to delve into the past. He didn’t want to open up this can of worms, but then again, he needed someone to talk to about all this. And he sure wasn’t going to do that with his aunt. She went cold every time his parents’ names came up.

  “I assume ‘clearing your head’ is related to the letters.”

  Smart girl. “He…” Wow. Didn’t think it’d be this hard to talk about it. “My, uh, my dad died when I was four—killed himself.”

  Jamie’s head lifted, her beautiful brown eyes lit with pain. “Oh, I’m so sorry.”

  “Thanks.” Her compassion felt good, like a balm on a decades-old wound. “My grandfather told me some things about my dad that I didn’t know.”

  “Like?”

  He hesitated—but realized he didn’t feel defensive with her. “Like he wasn’t a loser, that he loved me and my siblings. That he went to war and came back changed.” Sean watched a leaf tumble from a branch and flutter to the ground. He felt a lot like that leaf right now, tumbling and fluttering through life. “That I can relate to.”

  “Is that what happened to your jaw and neck?”

  “IED hit our Humvee. Killed three of my men.” The memories of the day that shattered his career threatened, so Sean quickly redirected the train wreck waiting to happen back to the letters. “My grandfather then said my mom was mentally unstable.”

  “Do you believe him?”

  “Makes sense, I guess. When I think back to her erratic, irrational behavior…” He shrugged. “Mom could be real mean without ever raising her voice. She made it clear I was the reason my dad died.” Why on earth was he telling her about all this?

  “How awful! I can’t imagine a mom ever saying that to her own child.”

  He’d lived with that burden since… forever. “Everyone said it was true.” Another shrug. “But my grandfather claimed my father was a hero, that he’d just been broken by my mom’s ranting and accusations.”

  “Seems a father would know his own son. Do you think he was right?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe.” Probably. That made more sense than the stories his mom fed him. “I hated my dad for a long time for taking his life, so it’s hard to know what to believe.”

  Jamie adjusted her bag as they turned toward Seventy-Third. “My uncle talked nothing but stars and sunshine about Patrick Wolfe.” Vehemence laced her words as she stopped him, touched his arm, and stared into his eyes. “Mr. Wolfe was my uncle’s mentor, and my uncle doesn’t trust lightly. So if your grandfather said those things, you can believe him.”

  More than anything, Sean wanted to accept that as truth. To know his father was a good man, that he didn’t hate Sean and want to be free from the responsibility of taking care of a family. And even more—to know that Sean hadn’t been the reason his family fell apart. But was it only a desperate hope?

  He pulled away and started walking again. It felt like progress: a comfortable, steady rhythm—with her by his side. A mental image of something mentioned in the letter popped into his mind. “Oh, hey. Did your uncle have a Civil War-era coin in that stuff you found?”

  Jamie shook her head. “No, I gave you the bundle. There are other trinkets—I can bring them to you if you want—but nothing like a coin.”

  Sean frowned, a curious ache inside him.

  “Is it special?”

  “My grandfather said it had been passed down through the Wolfes since one of my ancestors, William Wolfe, who served in the Civil War. Said it was a very important piece, and that should I ever marry and have a son, I needed to be sure he carried on the legacy.” They’d reached the edge of the park. Across the street and down a half-dozen blocks, their conversation would be over. Inwardly he winced at the thought.

  “You don’t have the coin?”

  He dislodged the feelings. “No. Never even heard of it.”

  “Did he tell you where it was in the letters?”

  “No. I haven’t gotten through all of
them though.” He squinted ahead. “You’d think if it was so important, I’d know about it.” He scratched his jaw and cringed at the mangled flesh. “My brother might have it, I guess.”

  “You have a brother?”

  “And two sisters. They took off when Mom died. I think they were in as much a hurry as I was to get away from the memories.”

  “Is that when you went into the Army?”

  “Signed up at seventeen, my aunt signed a release.”

  “Your aunt?” Her eyes widened as she slowed in front of an apartment building. “Aunt Gail?”

  Hadn’t he already told her he didn’t know a Gail? “Aunt Mitzi. And she’s my godmother. Not blood related.”

  “Oh.” She climbed a step, her nose wrinkled.

  One foot on the step, Sean cocked his head, noting that she was now the same height as him. “Why do you keep asking about this Gail person?”

  She gave a sheepish grin. “She’s my uncle’s long-lost love. They were to marry when he returned from Vietnam. She was supposed to meet him on Bow Bridge but never showed.”

  “Is that why you like that bridge?”

  Sparkling eyes met his. “Mostly.”

  Chapter 4

  A soft gong resounded inside the condo. Jamie lowered her hand from the doorbell, her heart pounding, and reminded herself she had good reason to be on the doorstep of the condo. She looked at the hand-painted chocolate tin she’d found last night. It was in the Wolfe crate, but she never dreamed it held more of Sean’s past. And she’d seen as plain as the scars he bore that God was working on Sean through these letters.

  Okay, so she found a morsel of guilty pleasure knowing that God also used her to help bring about this change. When he’d shown up two nights ago in the park, right after her fleece prayer, she’d been knocked senseless, yet at the same time, a deep knowing locked into place within her soul: she was to be there for Sean on this journey. Just like she’d been there for Uncle Alan.

  The door swung open and snatched her breath.

  Dressed in black slacks and a silk top, the attractive woman, who was fluid and all motion a second ago, stilled.

  Whoa. She’s Sean’s aunt? Despite a few silver strands in her red hair and the delicate laugh lines in her eyes, the woman held a corner on Beauty Avenue and Elegant Lane.

  A soft, gentle smile brightened her face. “Can I help you?”

  “Hi, I’m Jamie Russo. I believe Sean lives here, is that right?”

  The woman’s smile flickered. “Yes. Sean lives here. Do I know you?”

  “I met Sean through a bundle of letters.”

  Her mouth formed a perfect circle. “Oh. You’re that Jamie. The guy who wasn’t a guy.” She extended a manicured hand. “Mitzi Pendergast.”

  “Nice to meet you,” Jamie said. “Yeah, I think both Sean and I were expecting someone else.”

  A spark lit soft hazel-green eyes. “Isn’t that the way God works?”

  Jamie’s pulse skipped a beat. Ms. Pendergast couldn’t know about the prayer that convinced Jamie that God had crossed her path with Sean’s for a purpose. “Um, is Sean home?” Jamie held out the tin. “I found more letters last night.”

  “I bet you did.” She motioned Jamie into the house. “He’s upstairs working. Come on up. I’ll show you.”

  Stomach in her throat, Jamie wondered what Ms. Pendergast meant. She honestly had found the tin last night. Why would she think she hadn’t? Across the marble floor, past the antique chest with mirror in the hall, and up carpet-lined wood steps, Jamie held the box—tight. Please… please be glad to see me.

  “Be prepared. Sean’s never really been a neat freak, much to my consternation.” Ms. Pendergast’s steps were silent and graceful, a striking similarity to the way Jamie’s mother had walked and carried herself. The thought sent a pang into Jamie’s chest. “But he’s a great guy.” She turned to Jamie as they walked along a rail that overlooked the grand foyer to the right and a hall to the left. “I’m hoping the girl he marries won’t mind a mess.”

  Heat spread through Jamie’s cheeks—just as she looked across the open space. A large room consumed the upper half of the condo. Open concept, the loft sported a futon, a desk, gym equipment, and a bed shoved against a far corner with a nightstand, warmed by the lamplight that spilled over a chair.

  Clank. Clank.

  A grunt reverberated though the loft, pulling Jamie’s gaze toward a pile of… parts.

  “See what I mean?” Ms. Pendergast sighed as they rounded the last corner and stepped into Sean’s sanctum. “Sean, you have company.”

  “Me?” His head popped up over a large box. His eyes widened. He punched to his feet. “Jamie.”

  The way he said that and the smile shadowing his stubbled jaw drew out her own smile. “Hi.”

  Ms. Pendergast’s smile was even larger. She stroked a necklace that looked like a medallion of some kind. “I’ll bring some finger sandwiches and tea.”

  Before Jamie could tell her not to bother, his aunt had floated away.

  Wiping his greasy hands on what looked like a torn T-shirt, Sean came toward her. “Sorry about that.” He wagged his eyebrows toward his aunt. “She doesn’t know how not to entertain.”

  “She’s great.” Makes me miss my mom.

  “I wasn’t expecting you.”

  “I know it was presumptuous, but I thought you’d want this.” Jamie lifted the black box with hand-painted flowers.

  Sean tossed aside the rag, ran his hands down his jeans then through his hair, and nodded to the tin. “What is it?”

  “I was going to use the Wolfe crate for some old books, and when I took this out—I realized there was something inside it.”

  He stood close now. In fact, so close she could smell the grease and oil amid his cologne, that old-world spicy smell. Accepting the box, he glanced at her. “More letters?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Cool, but I’m glad you came by for another reason.” Sean looked around then rushed to the futon, removed a small tool box, a canister, and a T-shirt. “Have a seat. I want to show you something.”

  Jamie eased onto the futon. Hands on her knees, she trailed him with her eyes as he plucked something from the nightstand. The letters? He was going to share them? He’d said they brought back bad memories, yet he was going to share them with her? The significance kept her quiet.

  Four large strides carried him back to her. He eased down, the wood frame creaking under his weight. “Remember that coin I told you about? My grandfather mentions it in nearly every letter.” Sean flipped through the yellowed pages. “In one of them… he says”—he turned another page—“he gave it to your uncle.”

  “My uncle?”

  Sean pointed to the line. “Here.”

  Angling in, Jamie read: “‘After your father’s death—’” Her gaze leaped to his.

  “Go on.”

  She returned to the immaculately scrawled words. “‘After your father’s death, Alan James became like the son I’d lost. So, in keeping with the Wolfe tradition, I gave the coin to him.’” Jamie froze. “My uncle has it?” She heard the squeak in her voice but couldn’t stop it. “I’ve never seen it. And he’s never mentioned it.”

  “Can you ask him about it?”

  “Sure, I’ll do it right now.” She fished her phone from her purse and pressed the autodial. The line connected and rang.

  “Hello?”

  “Uncle Alan, sorry to interrupt, but I wanted to ask you a question.”

  “Anytime, Jamie-girl.”

  “I’m with Sean Wolfe right now, and we were wondering… did Mr. Wolfe ever give you a coin?”

  Silence pervaded the line.

  Maybe he didn’t understand. “We’re reading letters from his grandfather. Mr. Wolfe says he passed a family heirloom to you.” She looked at Sean, noticing the scars weren’t visible from this side. His jaw was strong and his gaze piercing.

  “Look, James, if I had a coin, don’t you think you would’v
e found it in that crate you took—without asking me, I might add.”

  “I know, I’m sorry.” She sighed. “But do you think you might’ve set it down, or maybe put it in one of the shadow boxes?” Why did his answer sound like avoidance?

  Sean’s stomach clenched when her jaw went slack. Concerned, he eased into her periphery.

  The phone squawked a reply Sean couldn’t make out, but it sounded angry.

  Jamie flinched. “I know… I’m sorry… but do you—” She stared at the display. “He hung up.” She dropped the phone into her purse then shoved her hands through her thick brown hair. “He was so angry. He’s never like that with me.” She shuddered.

  Guilt swam a mean circle around Sean’s mind. “I’m sorry I asked you to check into it.”

  “It’s not your fault.” She tucked her chin. “I think he’s mad because I tracked you down.”

  “Why would he be mad?”

  “When I saw the Wolfe estate crate, I seized the chance to find you in the hopes of finding her.” Her light brown eyes glossed with unshed tears—and he noticed for the first time the gold flecks that brightened her irises. “When he announced closing the war memorabilia shop, I felt like he was giving up not only on love, but on life. Then he told me I had to stop sacrificing my life for him.” She worried a string on the black futon cushion. “I wasn’t doing that, not really. I just wanted him happy.”

  “What about you?” The words were out before Sean realized it. He felt bad, but when her lips parted and she looked at him, he knew he’d hit a nerve. “Are you happy?”

  “Me?” That lone word plucked at his heartstrings. “Of course I’m happy.”

  Nice try. The too-defensive answer was more a retort than an honest reply. “Your uncle said you had to stop sacrificing for him—what did he mean? What did you sacrifice?”

  Again she dropped her gaze.

  “Jamie?”

  “Dance.” She swallowed, and a smile pushed into her face. “I gave up my dance scholarship.”

  “But you’re going to school.”

  The smile lost its luster. “No, I’m taking dance to stay on my toes—ha, ha.”