Heart on a Shoestring (4 page)

I shook my head.

“What are all the envelopes? Letters from a lover?”

“No. They aren’t letters.”

She held one up to the sunroof. “Can I open it?”

“Is it yours?”

She shrugged and put it back with the others. “You’re weird.”

I laughed. “I’m weird?”

“Why is everything a mystery with you?”

“Everything is a mystery to the one who doesn’t understand.”

I pulled off the highway and drove to the nearest street light.

“Pick a direction,” I said. “Right, left, or straight.”

She perked up like a flower kissed by the sun. “Really?”

I nodded and she pointed to the right. I let her choose at the next four stop lights until we found our way to a road peppered with suburban houses and SUVs. I parked and looked around. 

“Pick a house,” I said. “Any house.”

She pointed to the one with missing shutters and overgrown grass. The only one with rose bushes that hadn’t bloomed and a swing set that had seen one too many days. The exact house I would’ve chosen.

“Take one of those envelopes and put it in the mailbox,” I said.

She followed my directions and sat back down. “You’re definitely weird, but I like this side of you.”

“What made you choose that house?”

“It has character and hope. The mark of a life well-lived.”

“Really? Is that what you see?”

“What do you see?”

“Unpaid bills, one too many kids, and a strained marriage.”

The lines on her forehead wrinkled and creased. “I see a family who would rather cook dinner together than plant flowers. A mother more consumed with loving her kids than cleaning her house. A life well-lived, albeit not as clean as the life next door.”

“Do you see everything with a nice pink bow on top?”

She pointed to the immaculate house next door. Three pristine cars parked outside with shiny wheels. A garden bursting with color. Freshly painted bricks. New roof. Trimmed grass. And a man kneeling to pick up a newspaper as he walked from his car to the house, careful not to dirty his three-piece suit.

“There,” she said.

“What?”

“There I see a strained marriage, one too many bills, and not enough children.”

“What would you consider enough children?”

“Enough to make you less absorbed in yourself, your money, your hobbies, possessions, you name it.”

“What about people who have ten kids but still care more about blogging their lives away than they do living them?”

“I don’t know. I guess some people are so deep into themselves that they can’t see it anymore. Maybe they believe they’re altruistic when really their entire concept of reality is guided by their false perception of the world around them.”

I shifted gears and drove back to the highway. Miranda Ryan. Never met a girl like her. Ever. Strange as they come, but underneath that hair she was intelligent, alarmingly profound, and beautiful. More beautiful than any woman I’d ever known. More intriguing too.

She saw life through Miranda-colored glasses. And I’m certain those glasses were a one-of-a-kind pair. Worth more than a thousand green Ben Franklin’s. 

The Derek Rhodes Story
kept getting more and more interesting. I found myself flipping through pages with excitement, wanting to unearth the hidden passages of his heart. Then the envelopes. There were hundreds of them, or so it seemed, piled inside his glove compartment. Hundreds. And he chose random houses as the recipients of these mysterious letters.

I couldn’t stop thinking about them during the entire drive to the destination, which, by the way, I still didn’t know a thing about. The boring brown shirt man was mysterious. I liked that. I liked him more and more by the second.

After another gas station stop and a long stretch of driving, he finally parked at what seemed to be a fishing center. I looked around, wondering if he planned to buy fishing gear before the trip, but he opened the trunk and began putting my luggage into a somewhat small boat. At least small compared to a cruise ship, but bigger than some of the boats lined up beside it.

“This is Nettle,” he said, tapping the side of the boat as it rocked in the green water. “My boat and our ride to the place we’ll be staying.”

I pushed the side and watched the boat sway amidst plastic bottles and trash piled up by the dock. Perhaps he saw the concern on my face. I’m not good at hiding my true colors. Well, unless you count my hair. He squeezed my shoulder and said, “It’s safe.”

I wasn’t so sure, but I pretended to be. He finished tossing our stuff into the boat and held my hand as I leaped from the sturdy peer to the not-so-sturdy boat. I adored science. Completely aware of density and the mechanics of floating boats in murky water, but still ... little boats in deep water didn’t tickle my fancy. If I weren’t so bent on figuring out Derek and seeing him break out of his shell I wouldn’t have gotten in the car, much less the boat. The rocking, unsteady, teeny boat with no roof. 

I sat down, hoping that when he turned the thing on I’d stay in the boat and not fly off the side. Not that I couldn’t swim, just that I imagined myself flying off, hitting the motor, and bleeding to death at the bottom of the water. And which water was it anyway? An inlet from the Atlantic? A river? A reservoir? I didn’t ask. Just like I didn’t ask why Derek had a heart attack shock thing in his car, or how he knew exactly what do to when that man fell, or the way he talked with the ambulance people like he knew more than they did, and most especially, why he had a bunch of blank envelopes in his car that he put in random mailboxes.

I didn’t ask. Although my mind dreamed of a trillion possibilities. A trillion, I tell ya. Stories swirled inside my brain and painted my heart with wild colors. Who could Derek really be? Perhaps someone more exciting than brown shirts and sarcasm galore. And where could he be taking me? An exotic resort filled with possibilities of life beyond the mundane?

I held on to the bar beside me as he did something that made the engine roar into the air like a bear at the top of a mountain. I could practically see the sound rippling across the water. I didn’t realize he untied the boat and pushed us further into the gross-looking water. Why did people trash the world? I never understood that. What does it take to put your soda bottle in a trash can? I could totally see Michael Jackson in my head. Arms outstretched. Fire blazing behind him as he half-angrily, but with so much passion, screamed to all of us, “Do you ever stop to notice this crying earth, this weeping shore?”

I reached for my phone in my purse. After a few minutes of searching to no avail, Derek finally handed it to me. “Looking for this?”

I tried to turn it on. Nothing. After a few seconds of waiting for it to light up, I checked the battery. It was missing.

Derek smiled. “I took the battery out.”

“Why? Can I have it?”

“No.” He stopped the motor thingy and stood. “And now it’s time to shed your addictions.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You might hate me for this, but one day you might love me for it. So, for your sake, I’m willing to take the chance.”

“Seriously, you are getting more and more bizarre by the minute.”

“Takes a very skilled one to know one.”

I tried to laugh. Truth is, he worried me. Purely because I had no idea what on earth he meant. Then, he lifted my luggage and tossed every last one into the water. Completely shocked, I watched my suitcases float back to Michael Jackson as Derek revved the boat up and floored it toward the land ahead of us. Then it sunk in. Deep in. Deep into a part of me I didn’t know existed. A part of me that wanted to jump into the water and float with my clothes to my death, to their death, because for whatever reason losing all of my favorite outfits felt like losing my soul. I slouched into the boat and pretended not to care. Inside I fought the urge to sink my teeth into his flesh. Who did he think he was? And what did he think I was? A project? A Cinderella in need of saving?

No. I likened myself to Mulan. Maybe Pochantas. Eowyn in
Lord of the Rings
. Not Jenny in
Forrest Gump
. Or darling Cinderelli locked in the basement with nothing to do except hope for someone to discover that the shoe fits. That was not me. Why did he think that was me?

I didn’t speak to him. He anchored his boat once we reached land. No man’s land. Avoiding Derek and his gaze, I jumped to shore and looked around, wondering how long he planned to stay until going to the resort, but a few minutes later I watched as he pushed the boat and stood with his hands in his pockets as it drifted away and turned into a tiny circle atop smooth waves. He pulled a plastic bag from his backpack and handed it to me.

I snatched it and looked inside. An antique-ish looking Victorian night gown. A journal. And a pack of pens. Blue ink. Fine tip.

“Is this some kind of joke?” I said. 

“What do you think of our resort?” He smiled. 

“Am I supposed to sleep in the wilderness?”

“You said you wanted me to live a little.”

“I guess we have different views of life.”

“I guess so.” He pointed behind him. “There’s a place I go to up there. I’ve got some camp gear to set up.”

I didn’t want to give him the pleasure of knowing how much he made me want to throw sand and rocks at his face, so I smiled and pretended not to be bothered by his annoying plans. I’m not a girly girl by any means, but this was not my idea of vacation. And he had the audacity to take my phone battery. If he weren’t Ella’s brother I would’ve feared for my life.

He hiked up some hill while I sat in the spot he left me. Light waves lapped against the rocky shore. Not crystal clear water against a white beach. More like bay water against rocks with a tad bit of sand for good measure. I sighed and watched the sun show off before taking its bow.

I picked up my journal and the one Derek bought. His voice surprised me. I stood and turned around, one journal in each hand.

“Ready for s’mores?” he said.

I looked at the journals. My hand yearned for the pen like most girls pined over men. The feeling of smooth ink grazing some sort of parchment, curving into letters and words and sentences. Paragraphs of life and passion. 

He pointed to my hands. “Pick one.”

“Pick what?”

“A journal. Right now you need to choose. That journal in your right hand holds your past. This one”—he pointed to the spiral bound college-ruled aquamarine notebook he bought—“is a clean slate. So, keep writing a continuation of your past in that fine-leather journal or toss it into the water and start with a blank page.”

I didn’t like either option. So I tucked both into my bag and followed him up the hill. We walked over sticks, through dirt, around rocks, under fallen trees, and it was during that walk that I realized why Derek must’ve liked brown so much. Boring like some old woods in the middle of nowhere. Dirt, sticks, and some occasional green plants and grass.

He stopped in front of an entrance hidden by long green vines, pulled the vines toward us, and ushered me inside. I ducked and climbed between two moss-covered tree trunks and gasped when I reached the other side.

“This is my getaway.” Derek climbed in and stood beside me. “What do you think?”

How could I think? I couldn’t believe it. A small tent in the middle of countless flowers of every color. Ivy growing tall, choking the necks of trees. Wisteria floated above my head, dangling in rows of white and purple and sparkling in the sunlight. I brushed them with my hands as I glanced at the wild roses. Pink and white from what I could see. Right behind them a river of blue flowers winded its way through red, orange, and green. To the left of the tent a small charcoal grill and three fishing rods sat on top of a brick circle. Birds chirped above us, obviously delighted by the colorful blend of life beneath them. Lots of color. Lots of life. Lots of dedication to make that tiny nook so special. I looked at Derek. Hands in his pockets, he leaned back on his heels. He was proud of this place and by the charm in his eyes I could tell it meant a lot to him. I saw a glimmer of the child inside and it softened my frustration with him. For now, at least.

I grabbed his arm and looked around in a panic. “Where’s Auntie Em?”

He smiled. “You’re the only person who’s been here with me. I’ve never shown it to anyone.”

“Really? How long have you been coming here?”

“A few years.” He handed me a bag. “Graham crackers, marshmallows, and chocolate. I’ll get the fire going.”

He lit a fire and knelt beside it. His arms and face glowed in the flickering light as he placed a few more sticks into the flames. For the life of me, I tried not to stare too much at him, but I’d never seen him so lit up before. And it wasn’t just the fire.

Then it hit me. I’d never been camping before. Bugs, snakes, sleeping on the ground with only fabric between me and the wilderness.  

“I’m sorry about the clothes,” he said.

I nodded, handed him a marshmallow, and avoided his apology.

“Look.” He tossed a stick my way. “I have some money. Once we leave I’ll take you shopping and you can buy thousands of dollars worth of clothes.”

“Thousands?” I laughed. “Living in dreamland today?”

“Those envelopes each have five-hundred dollars in them. I keep them in my car and give them to random strangers. A single mom frazzled in the grocery line because her card is denied. A hard working dad who can’t afford a water heater. A kid in the wrong neighborhood who is tempted to sell drugs to buy a nice pair of shoes. Random houses that look like they could use some help.” He stuffed his marshmallow on a stick. “Not saying this to get some kind of compliment. Just saying I have money. Plenty of it. And I have no intentions of spending it on myself.”

“Why do you have so much money?”

“Good at saving, I guess.”

“What did you do for a living?”

He closed his eyes and sucked in a lot of air, then let it go.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” he said. “Just something about that word. Living.”

I shrugged and put my marshmallow into the fire beside his. “You know roasting marshmallows is an art, right?”