Remember the Time (15 page)

Mike gave up waiting for Kate around seven and called Susan Lake. She’d already eaten, but had leftovers if he wanted them. They both knew what he wanted, but they played the game anyway, and Mike drove to her house with anticipation.

Susan, her two divorces leaving her with a healthy respect for noncommitment, was uncomplicated, fun, easy on the eyes, and a very inventive lover: a winning combination for Mike these days. “I love men,” she’d said many times. “But shoot me before I marry another one.” Susan could make him forget his day. No mean feat.

The music was soft, the wine was good, and the candles were, like Susan, warmly seductive. But a strange thing happened once Mike was comfortably ensconced on her sofa. His mind kept wandering.

He was staring into the glass he held, when Susan playfully poked him, and said, “So, what do you think? I’ll call up my two exes, and we’ll have a little contest …”

Mike looked up and smiled vaguely. “Sure, whatever you want.”

Susan chuckled. “Mike. Where are you tonight?”

He sighed and set the wine glass on the coffee table. Turning to Susan, he said, “I’m sorry. What did you say?”

“Wasn’t important.” She kissed his hand.

“I’m sorry,” he repeated. “Guess I’m tired.”

“Do you want to leave?”

He shook his head.

“Well, then, we could just kick back and watch TV.”

“Sounds good.”

Not much later, he was asleep. When he awoke, Mike folded the afghan she’d covered him with. He went into her bedroom waking her to kiss her good-bye—to thank her.

“For what?” she sleepily asked.

“For putting up with me. For being here.”

“Don’t give it a second thought.” She smiled. “It’s been fun.”

“That it has,” he said.

“I think it’s time for you to find someone who can give you what you need, Mike.”

He nodded. “How about you?”

“What I need is to go back to sleep. That,” she said, closing her eyes, “and occasional great sex.”

Mike smiled and pulled the blankets up over her shoulder. He left her Victorian cottage as the sun’s rays crept over the Blue Ridge.

M
ike let himself in through Kate’s front door as he had for the past three days. As he walked down the hallway to the kitchen, he glanced into the den.

Kate, fully dressed, was asleep on the couch. He reached in to close the door. When he saw the empty wine bottle and glass on the coffee table, he silently swore. It was getting worse. Matt’s voice reached him from the front of the house and he quickly shut the door. Putting his finger to his lips, he ushered Matt back outside. “She’s still sleeping. Why don’t you take the day off?”

Matt happily agreed.

By half past ten Mike had fed and walked the dog, read the morning paper, and made a pot of coffee. Kate slept on. Pouring her a cup of coffee, adding the two teaspoons of sugar she liked, he walked back into the den and set the cup down. He gently nudged her with his knee. She buried her face deeper into the pillow.

He shook her shoulder. “Kate? Time to get up.” She moaned, but didn’t move. “Kate!” Louder this time, with a harder shake.

Earthquake
, Kate thought.
An earthquake in Virginia. How strange
.

Mike walked to the window and pulled up the blind. It didn’t catch and made a loud, flapping noise as it spun into a tight roll.

“Katie. Damn it, wake up!”

His angry voice reached through her sleepy brain and latched onto a functioning lobe. She groaned and mumbled something into the pillow.
There’s that shaking again
. It was hard to ignore, and she slowly lifted her head. Blinking, barely able to open her eyes, she gazed at the flowered print of the pillowcase until it came into focus. She sluggishly turned over and squinted up at Mike’s unsmiling face.

She started to speak, but instead of words a croaking sound emerged. Clearing her throat, Kate finally said, “Go away.”

Mike looked at the bags under her eyes, and her mouth, puffy with sleep and wine. A crease ran across her right cheek like an old scar. A streak of mascara formed a shadow under her eye.

“You look like shit.”

“You say the nicest things,” she responded.

“Drink the coffee while it’s hot.” He stalked out of the room.

Kate sat up and her head pounded. She slammed her eyes shut and the pain turned to a dull thudding. When she opened them again, he was standing in front of her, holding out a wet towel. Wordlessly taking it from him, she sank her face into its cool, soothing folds and sighed.

“Better?”

She nodded, lifting her face from the cloth.

Mike pushed aside several magazines and sat on the coffee table. He handed her the cup and she took a swallow.

“So, is this what it’s come to? The thought of my being in love with you is so horrible that you have to get stinking drunk?”

“No.” She handed back the cup and pressed the towel to her eyes again.

“What, then?”

“I couldn’t sleep, okay?”

“No!” He pulled the towel away from her with a jerk. “It’s not okay. Where were you all afternoon and evening?”

“Out.”

“Out where?”

“Just out, y’know? And where were you? I tried to call.”

He abruptly stood. “Out.”

“Out where?”

“I was with a friend.”

“Male or female?”

“Why do you care?”

Kate tried to pull off a nonchalant shrug. It didn’t come across very well. “Is it okay if I take a shower, warden?” she asked sarcastically.

“Be my guest.”

“Gee, thanks. Maybe you’d like to stand guard at the door?” Bracing herself against the arm of the sofa, she slowly stood to face him, her eyes sending out a familiar “I dare you” signal.

The two of them had sparked off each other from the beginning. She had fallen in love with Paul, and that had been a different kind of fire. But she and Mike had more in common. Their likes and dislikes and ideas ran on a parallel plane, and when one of them crossed that line, their debates lasted for hours—days. Paul would sit and listen, amazed that the two of them could go on for so long about a question like: Who deserved the Oscar that year for best actor? Was Alfred Hitchcock the greatest director of all time or was he playing a joke on everyone? Did Anastasia die or was
she really poor Anna Andersen who lived in nearby Charlottesville?

Sometimes, the debate would span months. Paul and Kate would arrive home from San Francisco and Mike would show up the next weekend, plunk down a stack of books, and begin citing passages to prove a point he’d been trying to make back in February. Neither would back down. They simply called a truce and went on to another, less incendiary, topic.

Mike and Kate sparred and parried and lit small fires that could be put out with a few well-chosen words. Maybe it was the Irish in both of them. Maybe it was something more.

Paul was smart enough to stay out of the discussions. And he was smart enough to know that Kate needed them. There was a combative streak in her that was always questioning. Paul could hold his own with Kate or Mike, but it just didn’t mean that much to him to do so.

Kate knew that Paul didn’t see much point in discussing the use of color in a Van Gogh, or a camera angle in a Hitchcock film, or the use of light and dark space in an Edward Weston print. To Paul, the things were there and done. What was there to talk about? This attitude became stronger as the years went on and Kate turned to Mike more and more for the mental games she loved to play. Twenty years down the road, they knew each other better than any married couple.

Kate has read the same page three times before putting aside the book. Bored and depressed that Paul is back for only a three-day home stand, she sits staring out at the Bay. He has already left for the ballpark, and the only thing she has to look forward to is another cold, windy night at Candlestick Park. And then the phone rings, and it’s Mike, lifting her spirits
.

“Put on your red dress, mama, cause we’re goin’ out tonight.”

“Mike!” She’s surprised and pleased. “When are you?”

“At the moment I’m in a phone stall at the San Francisco airport. Can I come over and play?”

“How soon can you get here?”

When the doorbell rings Kate runs, flinging open the door, and throws her arms around Mike, crushing the flowers he’s brought her. Laughing, she pulls him inside, saying, “God, if you aren’t a sight for sore eyes!”

“More likely just a sight.” He hands her the flowers. “I feel like I’ve been on a plane all my life.”

“Let me get you something to drink.” She is moving toward the kitchen
.

“What I’d really love is a shower.”

Kate is leaning against the wall next to the bathroom door that he’s left open a crack so they can talk
.

“What are you doing here?” she shouts over the rush of the water
.

“The Foundation for Architectural Heritage is having a fund-raiser. I was invited. And I could use a date.”

“Tonight?”

“Yeah. It’s at the Sir Francis Drake. Black tie. Got something tasteful, yet sexy, you’ve been dying to wear someplace?”

“As a matter of fact, I do.”

“Is that a yes?”

“I’d love to go.”

Mike smiles to himself and shuts off the water. Wrapping a bath towel around his waist, he steps out of the shower
.

“I’m tired of talking to this door,” Kate says. “Are you decent?”

“In the immortal words of Kate Armstrong: ‘Never, come on in.’ ”

Kate sits on the toilet lid and talks to him as he shaves. He can see her eyes on his profile as he looks in the mirror. He’s suddenly flustered
.

“So, what time is this affair?” she asks
.

“Cocktails at six. Dinner at seven,” he answers, marveling at her choice of words
.

“That only gives me an hour to get gorgeous.” She is looking at his chest now. “I never realized what great shape you’re in.”

He shrugs, quickly rinsing the razor and wiping off his face
.

“Where are you staying?”

“They booked me into the Sir Francis.”

“Wrong. You’re staying here.” She stands, and as she walks past him, pinches a fold of the towel he is wearing. “Better watch out. One false move and all your secrets will be revealed.” She grins at him. “Let me show you where the guest room is.”

Mike is standing at the living room window admiring the view
.

“Ta da!”

He turns at the sound of Kate’s voice, and in a reverent voice, he says, “Holy Christ.”

“You like?”

The floor-length royal blue dress shimmers like liquid sapphires as she slowly turns around. The thousands of beads on the figure-hugging silk catch the light and send out small flashes of light. Long-sleeved, high-necked, it reveals nothing, and everything. She steps forward and he sees the slit up the left side
.

“And I was just going to comment on the view from the window,” he says, getting his voice back. She is looking at him strangely. “What?” he asks
.

“You could be on the cover of
GQ.”
Kate moves closer to him. “You look gorgeous.” She runs her hand down the lapel of his tux. “You
are
gorgeous.”

“You just noticed?” he says lightly, trying to disguise his intense reaction to her nearness
.

He takes in her auburn hair casually piled on top of her head, held there with a rhinestone clip. He breathes in her perfume, and knows he has to move, or die from wanting her
.

“If you’re ready …?” Kate dangles the car keys in front of him
.

They are seated at a circular table, Kate on Mike’s left, finishing their dinner. Seated at the table with them is James
Alderson, the head of the foundation, a congressman, a representative from the California Preservation Foundation, and their wives. They are all thrilled to be introduced to the wife of Paul Armstrong, a San Francisco legend at that point, and Kate sparkles for them
.

As the plates are being cleared, Mr. Alderson rises from his seat and walks to a podium that has been set up at the head of the banquet room. The string quartet that has been providing elegant background music stops playing, and the room grows quiet
.

“I want to thank you all for coming and supporting the Foundation for San Francisco’s Architectural Heritage. You’ll be happy to know that the money you’ve so generously contributed over the past year, and the three hundred dollars per plate tonight, has been put to good use. By the way, dessert is coming.” The two hundred-plus people in the room chuckle, as the head of the foundation goes on to report what has been accomplished. Then he pauses. “But we’re not here just to raise money. Tonight, the foundation would like to honor a man whose vision, expertise, and talent has done more for San Francisco preservation this past year than we could have possibly dreamed. I’d like to introduce the man behind CraftWork Incorporated, Michael James Fitzgerald.”

As the applause begins, Kate stares at Mike, dumbfounded. He winks at her and makes his way to the podium to accept the award
.

“I can’t believe you knew this all along and didn’t tell me,” Kate chides him
.

They’ve gone up to the Starlite Roof to finish off the evening with brandy and dancing, and they now move to the haunting strains of “A Summer Place.” Mike doesn’t want to talk, he just wants to hold her
.

He quietly says, “I didn’t want to make a big deal out of it.”

“Like you didn’t want to make a big deal out of the fact that your picture was on the cover of
Time
magazine last year? I could’ve killed you for not telling us.”

Time
had done a special issue on preservation in America
in 1990. Mike’s company had won many prestigious awards by then, and he had landed on the cover. A head-and-shoulders shot of Mike in a hard hat, his gray eyes intent on the crumbling façade of a once-splendid opera house
.