Coming Home to You (11 page)

Breathe.

I exhaled and stared out into the darkened room.

I’d already made some big changes in my life lately. Maybe it was time to make some more. I poked my left hand out from under the blanket and held it up in the darkness. There was just enough light from the nightlight in the kitchen to dimly see my engagement ring. I’d been wearing it every day for the past eleven months, taking it off only to clean it when the stone had clouded from too much soap scum.

As I laid there in the dark, staring at the ring on my left hand, I wondered if it might not be time to take it off. It was a thought I’d fleetingly entertained before, only to reprimand myself for being irreverent. Surely there was a required length of time before such a thing was proper.

Was eleven months too soon?

Was it too long?

In wearing the ring, I was unwittingly making a statement: I was not free.

I reached my right hand out from under the covers and worked the ring off my finger as tears filled my eyes.

I wanted to be free.

Chapter 11

“Get these to Mrs. Green before noon so that she can get them all signed and back to us,” a voice barked at me without preamble.

The voice, hard-edged and gravelly from a twenty-year, three-pack-a-day habit, belonged to our office manager, Jane Warren. She punctuated her command by shoving a large stack of files at me.

“Good morning to you, too, Jane,” I muttered, looking up from the bank statements I’d been poring over all morning.

I capped my highlighter and flipped the cover of the top file on the stack, wondering what in these papers might be so pressing as to warrant Jane’s attitude and brusqueness. Not that anything actually ever had to have happened for her to act that way—that was Jane. Ever-poised and absolutely
dripping
with charm.

“No, it’s not a good morning.” she snapped, whipping around to head back to her office, leaving a thick layer of ice in her wake.

I pulled the stack of files toward me, shoving my previous project out of the way, and methodically made my way through the paperwork, signing and dating the necessary documents and affixing Sign Here flags at various points along the way.

Outwardly, I was calm and collected as I worked, silently determined in my task. Inwardly, though, I was seething. I was so sick and tired of Jane’s treatment that I could almost taste bile, the unreleased anger swelling so thickly in my throat that it nearly choked me. She’d been relentless in her imperiousness since the day I’d begun the job, and at that exact moment, it was more than I could take.

I needed to get out, needed to walk somewhere.

Anywhere. There were too many things going on in my head right now; and if I didn’t make my escape, everything would come tumbling out—and I had a feeling none of it would be pretty. Better to make a hasty exit, right? Even if I didn’t tell anyone where I was going or when I would be back. At least I wouldn’t have to do the same level of damage control I would most definitely have to do if I railed all over Jane the way I wanted to. Not that she didn’t have it coming.

I picked up the stack of files from my desk, walked determinedly to Jane’s cubicle, and silently handed them to her. I could feel the heat in my face from the unreleased anger.

“I need to step out a minute, Jane,” I said quietly.

She raised a challenging eyebrow.

“Just a few minutes. You can count it as my lunch break,” I said quickly, hoping she wouldn’t pry for details.

As office manager, she was entitled to know when everyone was coming and going, but Jane took it to the next level. She guarded the front door and the clock like a prison warden, the office bulldog even when there was no reason. For Jane, control was power, and she liked to lord it over everyone that she was the one who checked over the time sheets and kept close watch on every square of toilet paper that was used.

That was Jane.

And for some reason, she was allowed to call the shots.

Not now. Not on this one.

I turned quickly on my heel, made a beeline to the front door, and walked out into the fresh air.

The empty, sunny, fresh air.

Deep breath in. Deep breath out
.

I walked past the row of cars parked along the front of our building, across the street to the park, and down a side alley. I didn’t know where I was going, but I really also didn’t care. It didn’t matter at this point. All that mattered was that I was alone, outside, away from the madness.

No, I wasn’t pounding my fists or stomping my feet or raging at anyone. But it still felt good, this moment of freedom.

I kept walking, aimlessly, lost in thought, the quickness and urgency in my steps slowing as I calmed down.

What I wouldn’t give for real freedom, I thought.

Freedom and passion.

I was twenty-four.

Twenty-four should have been a time in my life that I was newly embarking on my journey, building my future with someone—not having to rebuild so completely that it was basically from the ground up.

Twenty-four should not have had death rob me of the love of my life.

But there I was, and I had been working hard to remember who I was before all of this. Remember who I had been when I met Paul and who he had fallen in love with. I knew I’d allowed complacency to keep me in a job where I merely filled a cubicle and punched a time clock, coming home to finish out my days as alone as I began them. I’d been with the company long enough to have made friends at work, but none of them was really someone I would have socialized with even under the best of circumstances. We coexisted, and we cooperated. None of us was really interested in more than that, so none of us really encouraged more than that.

I had my client list and my schedule of tasks, and I did exactly what I was supposed to everyday. No more, no less. I certainly wasn’t on the fast-track to greatness, but I pulled my weight. Maybe I should have been more determined to find a job that I loved, but I didn’t have the energy. I didn’t even care. I wanted to care, but sometimes I wondered if exploring that part of my life too deeply might make me truly aware of just how unfulfilled I felt at work. And what changing that would entail.

Where would I go from there?

There were so many questions to be answered, so much damage to be repaired.

I didn’t live with passion anymore; and I had, once. I wanted that back. I wanted to wake up in the morning and know that I was doing something that made me happy, made me feel like I had a purpose.

My steps became slower and slower, and then I stopped. I looked right and left, realizing I wasn’t really sure of where I was anymore. Too many side streets, too many little areas to get lost. And I was most definitely lost.

I turned around, hoping it might help me get my bearings, and came face to face with a sign.

Not a literal sign, but a sign nonetheless. It was there, written in bright green words spray-painted across the brick façade of an old store. The words were
my
words—written by some unknown hand—just for me.

Live with intent.

The store sat vacant, lonely-looking in its emptiness, its picture windows wide open and exposed. A For Sale sign hung askew at the bottom left corner of the window nearest the front door, which was locked tight in what seemed a cursory attempt at keeping vagrants away. Such a shell of a building.

It was beautifully—strangely—metaphorical.

I realized there were tears running down my cheeks, unbidden tears. Not of sadness or frustration or anger. I felt as though someone had reached out and touched some deeply buried place in my heart, gently caressed some long forgotten part of me.

I didn’t know yet what I was going to do, but I was determined to make my time count. This was it. This was the jumping off point, the line in the sand. This was my billboard from God.

I was going to make my life
full
.

I smiled as I stood there, staring at the sad little brick building, and took a deep breath.

Now
.

I turned around with one last look at the words, so boldly scrawled there for all the world to see, yet written solely for me. My steps, so unsure and unfocused as I had wandered this way, were now deliberate as I retraced them to make my way back to the office.

Yes, I would have to go back. For now. But there was a swell of hope in my chest as I walked, a feeling of promise.

Things were going to be different now. Things were going to change, and I was going to be the author of that change. I had a story to write, a life to live—and a passion to pursue.

I walked back with a small smile playing on my lips, the seeds of an idea beginning to germinate.

To: Neil Epstein

From: Zoë Trent

Subject: We meet at last!

Dear Neil—

It’s so nice to finally meet you.

Sort of.

I’d have preferred an in-person meeting, but this is definitely a step up from not being able to communicate at all. I’d ask you where you are, but I’m not sure that’s allowed. Ray seems to be hazy on the details of your exact location, so I’m guessing that not even he knows. So I’ll just say that I hope you’re doing well and that the time you’re spending over there, wherever “there” may be, is going quickly for you. The last two months here seem to have flown by.

So. Allow me to introduce myself. I’m Zoë Trent, a fact that I’m sure you already knew, if Ray really did run all of this by you. I must admit, I was beginning to wonder.

I’m a single, non-smoking, non-partying twenty-four-year-old bookkeeper who generally lives a very boring life and tends to keep to herself, so you needn’t worry that you’ll come home to a destroyed house that reeks of an ashtray and stale beer.

I want to thank you for being so generous in trusting me with your home. The situation may not be the most ideal, since we don’t know each other; but I have to tell you that your home has been a sanctuary to me over the past two months.

Thank you for that.

Well, I don’t want to overwhelm you with too much to read, so I’m going to sign off and hope that I hear back from you soon.

Take care and stay safe!

Zoë

To: Zoë Trent

From: Neil Epstein

Subject: RE: We meet at last!

Zoë:

I’m glad to “meet” you, too. And you’re welcome—but I think I should be the one thanking you. I’m glad to know that my house is in capable hands (Ray tells me he would trust you with his children—which might mean a little more if he actually had any, but still). As I said in my letter, please don’t hesitate to get in touch with any questions about the house.

Yes, the last two months have gone by quickly; and I’m hoping the next few do, as well.

Neil

I read the e-mail with a mix of curiosity and disappointment. There wasn’t any hint of personality; and to me, the exchange felt unsatisfying.

I took a sip of coffee and leaned back in my chair, still staring at the screen. I reread the last two lines and wondered if he was indirectly trying to tell me that he didn’t really want me to contact him unless it was absolutely necessary. He’d said basically the same thing in the letter he’d mailed.

I chewed my upper lip and swiveled back and forth, back and forth.

Was he really so detached?

I had imagined him to be somewhat charming, yet nothing in either the letter or the e-mail gave any hint of that. In fact, he seemed a bit flat.

If someone was staying in my house, and I’d finally gotten in contact with them, I’d want to know everything. But that was just me. The only explanation I could come up with for my need for information, for something other than cool anonymity, was the fact that I was here, in his home, among his things. Who could blame me for obsessing? It was a little like having an incomplete description of someone, and I hated to leave things incomplete.

I picked up my phone and dialed Ray. There were three rings, and then his voicemail picked up.

“Hey, this is Ray. Now it’s your turn.”

Beep
.

“Nice. I guess maybe all guys are short on words, huh? It’s Zoë. I was just calling to let you know that I got an e-mail from Neil, and I have a couple of questions. But I guess you’re too busy doing whatever you’re doing to take my call. So,” I sighed heavily into the phone, hoping I sounded sufficiently woebegone. “I’ll wait and talk to you when you have a minute to spare.”

I ended the call and tossed my phone back onto my desk.

Kate
. I could call Kate. She might be able to give me some kind of advice, right?

I picked up the phone again and dialed Kate’s number. I didn’t even have the luxury of ringing this time; it went straight to voicemail.

“Hi! You’ve reached Kate Chisholm. I’m sorry I missed your call, but please leave your name and a brief message, and I’ll get back to you as soon as possible. Thanks, and have a fantastic day!”

Beep.

Forget research. Kate sounded as perky as the captain of a high-school cheerleading squad, but right now I wanted to talk to
her
, not some perky-ass voicemail system. Where were all the people in my life when I needed to talk to them?

“Kate! Call me!
Please!
” I groaned into the phone.

Or maybe
commanded
would be more of an accurate description. I snapped the phone shut and glared at it as though it had committed some offense against me.

I really wasn’t sure why I was so worked up, but I was. I was feeling mightily impatient, and nothing in the universe seemed to be cooperating. I tapped the phone against the edge of my desk, mentally berating myself at being so very juvenile. The whole thing was just maddening, though. I’d waited all this time to have any sort of contact with Neil, and when he did finally, finally, take a minute to get in touch with me, the exchange was incredibly lackluster.

Was I really that surprised? Should I have been?