Distant Shores (4 page)

Cautiously, she opened the door. Without allowing herself another pause, she walked inside.

It was a small classroom, ordinary. A green chalkboard showed the eraser-swiped remnants of a math equation. In the middle of the room sat a semicircle of folding metal chairs; some of them were empty; others held nervous-looking women. Off to the left, a white-clothed table held a coffeemaker and a tray of baked goods.

“Don't be shy. Come on in.”

Startled, Elizabeth spun around and found herself nose-to-nose with a stunningly beautiful woman wearing a scarlet suit. A name tag on her lapel read: sarah taylor
.

“I'm Sarah,” the woman said, smiling brightly. “Welcome to the meeting.”

Elizabeth couldn't manage a smile. “I'm Elizabeth.”

Sarah touched her shoulder, gave her a reassuring squeeze. “Everyone's nervous at first.” She turned to the other women. “Charlotte, why don't you welcome our newest member?”

Elizabeth panicked. She wasn't really a member, was she?

Charlotte—a large woman wearing black velour sweats and green rubber gardening clogs—was already moving toward her. “Hey,” Charlotte said simply. “Welcome to the group. Come on in.” She took hold of Elizabeth's elbow and guided her toward the circle of chairs.

Elizabeth sat down.

Beside her was a tiny, bright-eyed young woman dressed in a denim jumpsuit and scuffed cowboy boots. “I'm Joey,” she said, smiling brightly. “My husband left me to join a rock band. He plays the harmonica. Can you believe it?” She laughed. “They call themselves Dog Boys. I call 'em Dog Shits, but not in front of the kids.”

Elizabeth nodded stiffly. Joey kept talking, smiling all the while. All around the circle, women chatted with one another about ordinary things. Kids' school schedules, loser ex-husbands, dead-end jobs, and child-support checks. The voices blended into a steady, blurring drone. More women drifted into the room, took seats in the semicircle. Some joined in the conversation. Others, like Elizabeth, sat quietly.

Finally, Sarah closed the door and took a seat in the middle of the group. “Welcome, ladies. It's nice to see so many new faces tonight. This is the Women's Passion Support Group.” She smiled. “Don't worry, we're not as erotic as that sounds.”

Laughter followed that remark, some of it nervous.

“Our objective here is to help each other. Simple Simon. We have something in common, and that something is a sense of loss. We've reached a certain age and discovered that we've misplaced a vital part of ourselves. For lack of a better word, I call the missing element passion. Our goal is simply to share our feelings with women who understand. Together we can be strong. To begin, let's go around the circle and share one dream each.” She turned to the woman seated beside her. “You've been here before, Mina. Why don't you begin?”

Mina, a plump, red-haired older woman dressed in a flowery, polyester housedress, seemed entirely at ease. “I started coming to these meetings about six months ago, when my husband—Bill—was diagnosed with Alzheimer's.” She shook her head, made a
tsk
ing sound. “It's a horrible thing, losing someone you love by inches.… Anyway, I promised my daughter that I'd come to the meetings. I couldn't imagine finding passion, but now, I'm taking driving lessons. It doesn't sound like much to you young gals, but it's given me a new freedom. Next week I'll be going in for my final test. Hopefully I'll drive here on my own next time.”

The group applauded, and Mina giggled.

When the room quieted, the next woman began to speak. “My name is Fran. My husband ran off with his secretary. His
male
secretary. The only passion I have lately seems to center around buying a handgun. Unfortunately, I can't decide which one of us to shoot.” She smiled nervously. “That was a joke.”

Sarah leaned forward. “What do you love doing, Fran?”

“I loved being a wife.” She paused, shrugged. “My friends act like I have a terminal disease. This is the first time I've left the house in weeks. My divorce attorney recommended it, but I don't see how you can help.”

“We can all relate to that,” Joey said. There was a murmur of assent.

“Think about it, Fran,” Sarah said. “What would you do if you knew you couldn't fail? Answer fast. One word. Don't censor yourself.”

“Sing.” Fran looked surprised by her answer. “I used to sing.”

“I belong to a women's choir,” Mina said. “We sing at local nursing homes and hospitals. We're always looking for new members.”

“Oh, I didn't mean to imply that I was a good singer.”

Mina chuckled. “We sing to people who wear hearing aids. Really, join us. We have a lot of fun.”

Fran looked uncertain. “I'll think about it.”

Several women started talking at once. Many of them, it seemed, had reached for unexpected things, too. Flying, sky-diving, marathon running. The consensus was that anything could be a start.

“
That's
what we're all about,” Sarah said. “Finding your passion isn't just about careers and money. It's about finding your authentic self. The one you've buried beneath other people's needs. Fran, you might be amazed at how much difference a little thing like joining a choir can make.” She nodded to the woman beside Fran.

The woman moved her fingers nervously, rubbed her hands together. She was tall and thin, dressed all in black; maybe forty years old. She'd bleached her hair the color of straw; her roots were jet black. “I'm Kim. When my shit-head husband left me for a woman with
braces
, I started drinking. Believe me, it became a passion. I've been sober now for three months, but I'm thirsty all the time. I have no idea how to replace booze. My mom heard about this group on television and made me promise to come, so here I am.”

“What do you do in your spare time?” Sarah asked.

Kim tugged on one of her long, silver earrings. “All I have is spare time. He left me plenty of money. I dyed my hair and got a tattoo—it says,
‘Fuck Don.'
Those are positive steps forward, don't you think?” She wasn't smiling. In fact, behind all that black eyeliner, her eyes were pools of pain.

“Maybe you could get a job,” someone said. “Earn your own money.”

“Believe me,” Kim snapped, “I
earned
that money. Besides, what could I do? I left college to get married and raise my daughter, who is now sixteen and thinks I'm dumber than a lug wrench. Volunteer work and husband ego-boosting hasn't qualified me for a whole hell of a lot. I can't see getting dressed in DKNY every day and saying, ‘Would you like fries with that?' ”

“There must be something that interests you.”

Kim sat back. Her fingers played a pianolike rhythm on her black pants. “Nope, nothing. Sorry.” She looked up. “Does revenge count?”

The group fell silent. Sarah said, “Maybe if you just listen tonight, you'll stop being so afraid.”

“I'm not afraid.” Kim reached into her purse and pulled out a pack of Virginia Slims. When she realized what she'd done, she crammed them back into her bag.

Sarah leaned forward. “You're in a desert right now, dying of thirst, but you're afraid to reach for water. Just don't give up, Kim. Sooner or later, you'll get to a point where it's more frightening to do nothing than to do something, and then you'll reach out.”

Kim gave Sarah a look of barely veiled contempt. “Can I find that crocheted on a pillow somewhere? Really. Maybe at a Losers 'R' Us outlet store?”

Sarah let the silence continue for a moment, then nodded at the woman beside Kim, who immediately started talking. After her, another spoke, then another and another.

Elizabeth realized suddenly that it was her turn.

Everyone looked at her.

Sit here like a rock, huh, Meg?
She'd look like an idiot if she passed. She took a deep breath. “I'm Elizabeth. I'm an ordinary housewife with two grown daughters. Stephanie is almost twenty-one; Jamie is nineteen. I haven't been divorced or widowed or dumped on. Everything that's wrong with my life is my own fault.”

“Blame isn't what we're looking for,” Sarah said. “We're interested in what you want from life. Your dreams, Elizabeth.”

Elizabeth knew that if she didn't answer, her turn would last forever. “I used to paint.” Surprisingly, it hurt to say the words out loud.

“I work at an art supply store. Picture Perfect on Chadwick,” one of the women said. “Come down this Saturday, and I'll help you find everything you need.”

Elizabeth had plenty of supplies. Paints and brushes were the least of what an artist needed, and no support network could convince her otherwise. “There's no point, really.”

“Don't be afraid,” Sarah said. “Buy the paints and see what happens.”

“You're lucky,” Joey said, her voice wistful. “You actually have a passion. I've been coming to the meetings for months and I still have no clue.”

“I wish
I
could paint,” added another woman.

Elizabeth looked at the faces around her. They believed this was helping her. In fact, it was making her feel worse.

“Sure. I could do that,” she said just to end her turn. “It'd probably be fun to paint again.”

She thought the women were going to start break-dancing.

Except for Kim, who sat there, dressed in her mournful black, staring at Elizabeth through knowing eyes.

FOUR

For the next week, Jack and Sally spent eighteen-hour days following the story. They got to the office early—Jack left home long before the sun had risen—and stayed late. Twice, he'd even slept on the couch in his office.

They'd interviewed dozens of people, tracked down countless leads, and tried to bullshit their way past closed doors.

Innuendo, anecdote, gossip—these they had found in abundance. By all accounts, Drew was a sleazy, not-too-bright young man who had an exceedingly high opinion of himself, an almost total disregard for other people's feelings, and an unshakable belief that society's rules didn't apply to him. In other words, he was a real pain in the ass.

He was also Oregon's brightest collegiate athlete, the best state basketball player in two decades. Speculation was high that he could lead the down-on-their-luck Panthers to their first ever NCAA championship season.

It was hardly surprising that no one in Panther athletics would talk to them—not even to issue a
no comment
. The basketball coach had been unavailable all week. And no one seemed to have seen the incident with the girl except Sally's sister. In short, they had no proof. No one liked Drew Grayland, it was clear, but no one would say anything on the record.

After another fruitless day, Jack and Sally went to a local steakhouse for dinner. They sat in a back booth where it was dimly lit and quiet.

“What now?” Sally asked.

Jack looked up from the notes spread out across the table. He was surprised to find that the place was almost empty. When they'd come in for dinner, every table had been full. “I think it's time for another drink.” He raised a hand, flagged down the waitress.

She hurried over, pulled a pencil out from above her ear. “What can I get for you, Mr. Shore?”

Jack smiled tiredly, wishing—for once—that he hadn't been recognized. He felt like getting drunk. “Dewar's on the rocks.”

“Margarita rocks, no salt,” Sally said.

The waitress returned a few moments later with the drinks.

Jack sipped his, staring down at the notes again. He'd been staring at them for an hour, trying to glean something he'd missed. Someone to whom he hadn't spoken. But there was no one. He couldn't figure out where in the hell to go from here. All he knew for sure was that he'd failed. Again. This time, he'd taken bright-eyed Sally down with him. “Henry will be back from Australia tomorrow. Maybe you should take the story to him.”

“We'll nail this story, Jack. You and me.”

Her confidence never seemed to waver. Throughout all the dead ends and
no comments
, she'd kept believing in Jack. He couldn't remember the last time someone had had such faith in him.

He looked at her. Even now, when things were going so badly, her black eyes shone with optimism. And why not? She was twenty-six years old. Life was just beginning for her; it would be years before she learned the tarry taste of disappointment.

At her age, he'd been the same way. After three stellar years at the UW, and that amazing Heisman win, he'd been a first-round draft pick—to a loser team who needed him desperately. Behind an ineffective line, he'd had to run his ass off just to stay alive, but he'd worked hard and played his heart out. Three years later, the Jets picked him up.

That had been the first of his Golden Years.

In the fourth game of his first New York season, the starting quarterback had gotten hurt, and Jack's moment had come. He threw three touchdown passes in that game. By the end of that season, no one remembered the name of the quarterback he'd replaced.
Jumpin' Jack Flash
had been born. Crowds chanted his name; cameras flashed wherever he went. He led his team to back-to-back Super Bowl wins. It was the stuff of which legends were made. For years, he'd been a superstar. A hero.

Then he'd been hit.

Game over. Career ended.

“Jack?” Sally's voice pulled him back into the smoky bar. For a second there, he'd been gone. “What happened to you?”

He sighed.
Here it comes.

“When I was a little girl—”

Oh, good.

“My dad and I used to watch football together. You were his favorite player. He pointed out every move you made, analyzed every pass you threw. I was eleven when he died—cancer—and when I remember those days, I always think of football. Every day after school, I sat beside his hospital bed. On the weekends we watched the games together. I think it was better than talking.” She looked at him. It took her a second to smile. “He always said you were the best quarterback to play the game, and now you're in Portland, Oregon, on the lowest rated newscast in town. What happened?”

It was what they all asked, sooner or later.
How did you lose it all?
He always gave the same answer. “You know I blew out my knee.”

She leaned forward, gazed at him earnestly. “There's more to it, isn't there?”

It felt dangerous suddenly, this moment; a slow, conscious skate toward the edge of intimacy. He knew better, of course. Every man his age did, but he'd been lonely for a long, long time, and just now that burden seemed heavier than before. “It started in the hospital.”

Amazingly, he told her all of it, how he'd gotten addicted to his pain medications and blown his shot on
Monday Night Football
.

It came back to him like a handful of broken glass, all sharp edges and reflected light. He knew that if he held it too tightly, his hand would bleed, but he couldn't stop himself.

He'd tried so hard to pretend that losing football didn't matter, but the game had been his life. Without it, his days and nights had unfurled like scenes in a silent black-and-white movie. He'd anesthetized himself with pills and booze. His excesses had become legendary. He went from golden boy to party animal. There were huge chunks of time he couldn't even remember.

But he remembered The Accident. It had been late, or early, depending on your perspective, on a cold and snowy night. He shouldn't have been driving, not after a long night spent drinking at the Village Vanguard. But hindsight was twenty-twenty. What he remembered most was the screeching scream of tires and the smell of burning rubber.

“I didn't hurt anyone,” he said softly, but that wasn't the point. “My agent kept it out of the papers, but my career was over anyway. After a stint in rehab, the only job I could get was for a local station in Albuquerque. It's been a long, slow climb back.”

He looked at Sally and knew that something had changed between them. For the first time, she was seeing beyond Jackson Shore, Football Legend, to the man he was inside.

He tried to look away. Couldn't.

She touched his arm. “This story is going to make both of our careers.”

Her touch was like an electrical spark.

He forced himself to look down at the papers spread out between them. He tried to read. Words drifted up to him, meaningless and unconnected. Then he noticed something. “The campus is closing today for winter break.”

“I know.”

He had to do
something
. Anything was better than sitting here, suddenly aching for a woman he couldn't have. “What do you say we go back, drive around? The administrators and staff will be gone. Maybe someone will talk when the wardens aren't around.”

“It's worth a shot.”

Jack paid the bill; then they left.

Back on campus, they tried all their usual places, looked for all their previous sources. They made themselves impossible to ignore, easy to find.

Nothing.

Finally, they pulled into the parking lot and sat in the car beneath a bright streetlamp. A silvery rain beaded the windshield.

“I guess that's that,” he said at last, reaching for the keys. A glance at the dash clock revealed that it was one in the morning. In a few hours, he'd have to show up for work again.

A knock at the window shocked the hell out of both of them.

Jack rolled down the window. There, sidled close to the door, was a uniformed campus police officer, a man they'd tried to interview earlier. Sally immediately reached for a notepad and flipped to a blank sheet.

“You're lookin' for the dirt on Drew Grayland?” the officer whispered.

“Yeah. We heard he got picked up for drunk driving last Saturday night.”

“Nothin' new in that. These athletes get away with murder. I'm sick of it. I've got daughters, you know?”

“Can you confirm that Drew was arrested on Saturday night?”

The officer laughed. “Arrested? I doubt it.”

“What's your name?”

“Mark Lundberg.”

“Can we quote you on the record?”

The officer shook his head. “I got two kids to feed. I can't take on this fight. But I can't stand by and do nothin' anymore. Here.” He slipped a manila envelope through the open window.

Jack glanced down at the envelope. There were no markings on it of any kind. When he looked back outside, Lundberg was gone.

Jack opened the envelope and withdrew the papers, scanning them. “Oh, my God …”

“What is it?” Sally asked, her voice spiking up in anticipation.

“Incident reports. Four women have accused Drew of date rape.”

“And he's never been arrested?”

He turned to look at her. “Never.”

Elizabeth checked her to do list for the final time.

Mail packages
Pick up dry cleaning
Stop mail
Stop milk delivery
Change batteries in smoke detectors
Confirm seats

Everything was done. By this time tomorrow, she'd be at her dad's house, with her daughters and family around her, celebrating an old-fashioned Christmas.

After one last obsessive-compulsive pass through the house, she grabbed her purse and headed for the car.

But as she stepped out onto the porch, light spilled down from the quilted gray sky in flashlight-bright beams. It was what the locals called a “sunbreak.” Her yard looked magical in this light, like a long-forgotten corner of some enchanted forest.

She stared at the cement pavers that ran like Gretel's white rocks to the edge of the property. They seemed to invite her to come forward.

Instead, she went to her car.

She made it to Portland in good time. For once, it wasn't raining, and the downtown streets were quiet. She supposed it was a sad reflection of the times. In years past—especially in the dot.com years—these streets had been crowded with holiday shoppers. Last year she'd had to wait almost an hour in the Meier and Frank wrapping area; this year, there'd been no line at all.

At the station, she parked in the visitor's section of the underground lot and went upstairs to the lobby.

“Hi, Eleanor,” she said to the nose-ringed receptionist. “Happy holidays.”

“Hey, Miz Shore. I don't celebrate Christmas—too commercialized—but thanks anyway. Same to you.”

Elizabeth restrained a smile. She had never been that passionate and questioning, even in her youth. While some of her sorority sisters had spent long nights in the B&O Espresso on Capitol Hill, arguing about the political upheaval in Iran, she'd quietly immersed herself in painting.

In retrospect, she wished she'd rebelled a little more. A nose-ring-wearing, tattooed past would probably have done a woman like her a world of good.

She went upstairs and found Jack's office empty. Glancing worriedly at her watch, she hurried down to the studio, checked in, and slipped into the darkened room. There were fewer people in here than usual—probably a skeleton crew because of the holidays.

Jack was behind the big desk on set. In full makeup, with the lights bright on his face, he looked movie-star handsome. As usual. It was unfair, she thought suddenly, that he'd held on to his youth while hers seemed to be sliding south.

“… In this exclusive report,” he was saying, “Channel 6 has uncovered a number of sexual misconduct allegations made against Panther center, Drew Grayland. In the past two years, four different women have made rape or sexual misconduct reports against Mr. Grayland. Campus officials did not turn these reports over to the Portland police, according to Police Chief Stephen Landis. Olympic University athletic director, Bill Seagel, had no comment today when apprised of the allegations, except to say that to his knowledge no criminal charges had been filed against Grayland. Coach Rivers confirmed that his star center will start against UCLA next week. This story is one we are continuing to follow; we'll bring you live updates as information becomes available.”

Jack smiled at the female anchor beside him. They spoke for a second or two, then Jack took off his microphone and stood up. As he crossed the room, he noticed Elizabeth and grinned broadly. He grabbed her hand and led her back to his office, laughing as he kicked the door shut behind them.

“Can you believe it, Birdie? I did it.” He laughed. “This is the story I've been working on for the past week. With any luck, the networks will pick it up.” He swept her into his arms and lifted her off her feet.

She laughed along with him. No one did success like her husband. It had always been that way. In the good times, Jack was a rushing torrent of water that swept you away.

He loosened his hold, and she slid back down to the floor.

They stared at each other; their smiles slowly faded. After a long, awkward moment, she said, “Are you ready to go?” She glanced down at her watch. “Our plane leaves in two hours.”

Jack frowned. “We leave tomorrow.”

Son of a bitch.
He'd done it again.

She was proud of her control when she said simply, “No. We leave today. December twenty-second.”

“Shit.”

“Your bags are in the car, don't worry. I packed everything. All you have to do is drive us to the airport.”

The door to his office smacked open. A young woman in a gray knit dress and knee-length boots ran into the room. “You're not going to believe this,” she said, rushing forward. She got halfway across the room before she realized that Jack wasn't alone. She stopped, smiled pleasantly at Elizabeth. “I'm sorry to interrupt. But this is big news. I'm Sally.”