Remember the Time (31 page)

This was as alone as it got.

Mike was already heading down Highway 64 by then. He had thrown enough clothes in a suitcase to last him a week, locked up the house, tossed the bag into the cab of the truck, and with one last angry glance at Matt’s car, roared away. Somewhere around Norfolk he’d called Sheryl from his mobile phone to tell her he wouldn’t be around for Christmas. Her stunned “Why?” didn’t faze him. He gave her no explanation, simply repeating he wouldn’t be there, and he hung up.

He’d been on the road for nearly seven hours and stopped in the town of Aden, North Carolina, population 5,655 according to the road sign. His dinner consisted of a greasy burger and fries. The first motel he came to turned out to be the only one in the drab little burg.

The room probably hadn’t changed since the fifties, when the place had been built. Scarred maple furniture and drapes faded to an unrecognizable shade that might
have been green at one time exuded a musty odor. The tub and sink had matching rust stains. But the sheets were clean and the TV worked.

He thought about checking his messages, but when he looked over at the phone he knew he’d have to wait. It had no buttons. It didn’t even have a dial. Strictly an in-house telephone, they might as well have strung two tin cans together. His cell phone was in the truck, but he was too weary to pull his clothes back on to retrieve it.

Mike stretched out on the bed after switching on the television. The last thing he saw before falling asleep wasn’t on any network. It was the shadow of Kate standing in the tower room, looking out at him through the window.

He drove through the outskirts of Charleston, South Carolina, with just one thought in mind. He wanted to be pampered. He wanted luxury and great food and expensive wine. He wanted to feel cared for. And he knew the Church Street Inn, and Eleanor, could do all those things for him.

Plunking down his American Express Platinum card, he asked for their best room for the next four nights. Despite the season, the concierge was happy to accommodate him, and once the bellhop had left the room, Mike pulled a Beck’s out of the bar hidden in an antique armoire and picked up the phone.

He tried to stop the thought before it was fully formed, but it was too late.
Kate would love this
. Predawn, and everything outside the hotel, from the Market to Waterfront Park, was bathed in a pale rose light. Mike always called Charleston the Pink City in his mind. Pink brick buildings, salmon houses with wide piazzas, and carnation-colored plaster trimmed in black ironwork.

He turned away from the window and his eyes fell on a wisp of fuchsia satin that covered Eleanor’s hips as she slept. He watched her for a few seconds, sighed deeply, then quietly went into the bathroom and shut the door.

The tile floor was cold and he quickly started the shower. As he turned to the marble counter to pick up his shampoo, he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. He wasn’t thrilled with the man he saw. He’d never run away from anything in his life, yet here he was, hundreds of miles from his family at Christmastime. And why? Because he couldn’t deal with real life when it smacked him in the face. Because some fairy-tale vision he had of rescuing the fair Kate had gone awry. Because still, after all these years, he wanted Kate to be his, and his alone.

His image began to blur as the mirror clouded over. Mike stepped into the hot shower.

“Is there room for two in there?”

Eleanor’s voice penetrated the dense fog that surrounded him. Her sleep-warm body pressed against his back as her arms circled his chest, yet he shivered. Still holding the bar of soap he’d been using, he said, “I’m sorry about last night, El.”

“I noticed your heart wasn’t in it.”

“It had nothing to do with you.”

“I know that,” she answered. “You said her name when you came.”

Mike winced. “God. Can you ever forgive me?” He turned to face her.

“We’ve been all through this, Mike. I knew the score coming in. You sounded like you needed someone and I was happy to be there.”

He kissed her forehead, her pale blond hair.

“We’re not going to do this again, though, are we,” she said.

He shook his head. “I’m afraid not.”

Taking the soap from his hand, Eleanor placed it on the ledge. “Then give me a proper good-bye kiss.”

Mike sat at the desk in his room, phone in hand. Although the anger he felt was so insidious it exhausted him, and although he didn’t know where to put it except at Kate’s and Matt’s feet, he realized this was no time for doubts. Not after all this time. Kate had said the words. He had to believe her. About everything. Or it had all been pointless.

He punched in the numbers that would allow him to retrieve his messages. They were all from Kate, pleading with him to answer the phone. Her voice was desperate.

In her final message, though, her voice grew subtly stronger.

“I physically lost Paul three years ago. But I lost the Paul I loved years before that. I’ve barely lived through both losses,” she said. “I know for a fact that I won’t be able to live through losing you.”

Mike began packing.

As if the sudden snow flurries along the coast hadn’t been bad enough, and the traffic through Norfolk at rush hour hadn’t been excruciatingly slow enough, the broken fan belt on the outskirts of Richmond made him lose all self-control, and Mike got out of his truck and kicked the fender.

He just wanted to get home. And now, calling Triple A from his mobile phone, he cursed his luck. It would take them at least forty minutes to get to him. Seems he wasn’t the only road casualty on this crappy night. Everyone was in a hurry to get somewhere four days before Christmas.

Mike pulled on his parka and settled down for the long wait. He tried reading, but it was too dark. The nearest highway light was a good three hundred yards
ahead of him. His stomach gurgled, reminding him he hadn’t eaten since leaving the hotel that morning. Rummaging through the glove compartment, he came up with an opened pack of breath mints and some stale crackers that had probably been there since the last administration. Sucking on a mint, Mike unzipped his suitcase, pulled out his Walkman, and tuned into a radio station that did a nightly blues program.

“That fits,” he said, leaning back and closing his eyes, letting Muddy Waters tell him how minutes seem like hours, and hours seem like days.

His headlights didn’t pick out his dark house until nearly eleven o’clock that night. Wearily climbing out of the truck, Mike dragged his suitcase across the seat and let it drop to the ground. Slamming the door shut, house key in hand, he glanced across the street. What he saw made his pulse quicken.

Kate stood in her living room window. It was the only light on in her house and he saw her clearly for only a moment, and then she was gone. And just as he thought he’d imagined her, the front door opened and she was coming toward him. His suitcase forgotten, fatigue only a memory, Mike quickly skirted the truck.

They met in the street and as they faced each other, they both recognized a change had taken place. Kate, afraid it was too late for them, searched his face for a sign that he still felt something for her. She reached up to his face with both hands and brought her lips to his. He seemed to pull back at her touch, and she let him go.

“Please forgive me,” she said.

“Give me a reason,” he said.

“I love you, Mike. I don’t have any other reason.”

He moved away. She was too close, and he was too vulnerable. “I’m tired, Kate. I need some sleep … I need some time.”

She nodded, looked away. “I understand.”

The sadness in her voice shook him a little. There was
an aura of melancholy about her that was new. He nodded himself. “I bet you do,” he replied.

Her eyes found his again, and she said, “I’m glad you’re back.”

“I’m glad you’re glad,” he answered with a small smile. “Why don’t we talk more tomorrow.”

M
att’s hand shook as it hovered over the phone. Each time he attempted to dial Kate’s number, he remembered her angry words. There was no one else to turn to, though.

Mike was gone. And besides, Matt figured he’d pretty much screwed up that relationship. How could he talk to his uncle about Paul now?

The thought of asking his mother was too weird. What if he was wrong? What would she think of him, then?

That left Kate. Did it matter if she hated him for the rest of her life? Better her than his family.

His fingers finally punched in her number and he waited. When she answered, Matt’s bowels contracted in fear, and he almost hung up. But this was too important to let himself be intimidated by whatever Kate could say or do.

“It’s Matt. Don’t hang up!” he said quickly. But he was suddenly, and not surprisingly, listening to a dial tone. He hit the redial button before he could chicken out.

She said, “Stop bothering me,” and hung up.

His third try was met by a busy signal.

• • •

Matt sat in his mother’s car. She’d bought his story of a bad battery and he was supposedly on his way to a friend’s to borrow a charger. Instead, he waited with uncharacteristic patience two houses up from Kate’s. He figured—hoped—she’d have to go somewhere eventually, and he was willing to wait all day if necessary. In case it
did
take hours, he’d brought along a sandwich and his portable CD player.

Just as he was settling into his third hour, and Pearl Jam’s latest, Matt was rewarded.

He followed Kate to the parking lot on Market Street, where she got out of her car and entered a shop from the back door. Puzzled, Matt walked around the block. The sign in front of the building read Remember the Time. And another, smaller, sign hanging below it told him it was an antique store. According to the small plastic clock held to the door by suction cups, the shop was due to open in fifteen minutes. But just as he put his right foot on the first porch step, the front door swung open and Kate backed out, holding a rocking chair.

Out of the corner of her eye she could see there was already a customer coming up the stairs. Setting the chair down, she turned to greet him, and was horrified to come face-to-face with Matt.

“Can’t you leave me alone?” she hissed.

“Well, you wouldn’t talk to me at your house, so I figured I’d try and meet you somewhere else. What is this place?”

“Don’t be dim, Matt. This is my shop.”

“I didn’t know you had an antique store …”

“If you didn’t know, how did you find me?… You followed me here?”

“It looks like a nice place,” he said, stalling.

“Don’t change the subject. Did you, or did you not, follow me here?”

“I guess I kinda did. But Kate, I really need to talk to you!” She started to close the door in his face. “Please.”
He took hold of the doorknob, his body taking up most of the frame. “This is so incredibly important. Just give me ten minutes, and I won’t bother you again. I promise.”

Peggy James, the owner of the flower shop next door, walked by at that moment, a curious look on her face. “Everything all right in there?” she called.

Kate peered around Matt. “Yes. Thanks, Peggy.”

“Kate? Well, I’ll be! It’s been an absolute age.”

Kate could tell from Peggy’s voice that she was about to be treated to a visit. “Yes, it has, Peg. And I’d love to chat, but I’m trying to get a delivery straightened out. Will you excuse me?” And with that she grabbed Matt’s arm and pulled him into the shop. Once the door was closed, she said, “You’ve got five minutes.”

Now that he had her undivided attention, he could feel himself beginning to falter. Everything he wanted to say suddenly seemed stupid. All the questions seemed childish.

“You said it was important, Matt,” Kate said impatiently.

“Yeah.” He finally reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out the envelope. Taking out the photographs, he handed them to her. Kate’s eyes questioned him, and he said, “Just look at them.” Kate quickly flipped through them, and Matt asked, “Do you know who that is?”

“Of course I do. They’re Paul when he was a baby.” She looked up at him. “How did you get these?”

Matt ignored her question. “Look at them again.”

Any patience she may have had now eroded dangerously. “I don’t need to look at them again. These are Paul’s baby pictures. What else do you want me to say?”

“Where did they come from?”

“This is ridiculous. Why don’t you tell me where you got them? Did you take them from the tower?”

“They’re not Paul.”

Kate snorted. “What are you talking about? Of course they’re Paul.”

“They’re
not
Paul,” he repeated. “I know. Because these are photos of me.”

“This is outrageous. You take these out of my house and then try to tell me I don’t know my own husband?”

“I’m telling you the truth.” Matt pulled a photograph out of the back pocket of his jeans and handed it to her. She snatched it from him. It was identical to the second picture she’d looked at. “Turn it over,” he said.

She read the words written in blue ink.
Matt—age 1 ½—Clinton, MD

“I don’t get it,” she said almost to herself. “Why would Paul have photos of you?”

“That’s what I’d like to know.”

Kate stared up into his hazel eyes, forcing her mind to work logically. “Let me see the envelope.” Matt silently passed it over to her. It told her nothing, and she gave it back to him. “Mike must’ve sent them,” Kate finally stated.

“Why?”

“I don’t know why,” she said angrily. “And your time is up.”

Kate walked away from him, her thoughts turning back to Mike. By the time Matt let himself out of the shop, she’d already forgotten he’d been there.

It had been so long since she’d been in the store that the inventory seemed to have completely changed. Kate wandered through the rooms and found new pleasure in the old pieces. Three customers, all men, came in before noon, and all three found the perfect last-minute Christmas gifts for their wives.

Kate made her way upstairs with a box of linens with the intention of exchanging dusty for clean. Each room in the shop represented a room in a real house, and each
was decorated in a different style. She entered the “library,” with its mission oak furniture, leather-bound books, and Persian rugs, and saw it immediately.