Looking for Me (34 page)

He raked his fingers through his hair, rose from the ottoman, and walked to the window. Standing with his back to me, Sam spread his arms between the moldings.

“You’re absolutely right. I don’t know what you’re feeling. But what I do know is that you’re a willful woman, Theodora. And I
do
understand how even the smallest thread that links to your brother is important. But your physical presence won’t alter any of the facts. Plus, the boy has a head injury. Who knows how long it might be before he’s able to talk to the authorities? He probably found your letter where you left it and—”

“I need to be there the moment he wakes up.”

Sam slowly shook his head and drummed his fingers on the window frame. Every bit of his body language spoke of exasperation. “If you absolutely have to go, I’ll drive you,” he said, turning to face me. “But you’re setting yourself up for a huge disappointment. Teddi, how many times have you already had your heart broken over this?”

From across the room, we looked at each other, me chewing my lip, Sam with his hands on his hips.

I thought about all the false leads that had surfaced over the years—waiting for dental records to reveal that the human remains found wedged between two boulders were not those of my brother; the campers who came across a cave where clearly someone had been living for quite a while, only to find out it wasn’t Josh. Sam and Jeb were probably right. Chances were good that the boy had found my letter where I’d left it and for whatever reason had kept it. Maybe it meant something, or maybe it meant nothing at all.

The panic I’d felt only moments ago was starting to fade. I let out a long sigh and buried my face in my hands. “You’re right.”

“Does that mean you’ve changed your mind about going to Kentucky?”

I nodded, suddenly so embarrassed I could hardly look Sam in the eyes. “What you must think of me. I’m sorry. I got a little crazy for a few minutes, didn’t I?”

His shoulders relaxed, and he tilted his head. “Teddi, given the circumstances, I think you’ve got a right to go crazy now and then. I can’t fathom what you’ve lived through for all these years.”

Right then the taut wire that had been squeezing my chest loosened. I took a full breath, letting it out slowly. I had the sensation of being tethered to goodness, to a calm that was steady and reliable. I looked up at Sam and slowly took him in—from his mussed hair to the pink scar above his eyebrow to his wrinkled shirt that I only now noticed he’d buttoned cockeyed.

“You know what?” I said, glancing at his feet. “I’m really glad you don’t wear argyle socks.”

He looked at his plain black socks and wiggled his toes. “Is there a hidden meaning to that statement?”

“Yes,” I said, rising from the chair and walking toward him. “And I’ll tell you about it if you’ll sit with me in the garden.”

While Eddie bounded around the yard, happily sniffing the scents of night, Sam and I reclined side by side on the oversize chaise I’d recently bought.

“This thing is great,” he said, pulling me close. “So what’s the deal with the argyle socks?”

When I told him the story, including how I’d put pebbles in the valve stems of the tires, Sam laughed. “I’ve never met anyone like you, Teddi. You always surprise me, in good ways I might add.”

The evening was beautiful and cool as we lay beneath the stars and talked, the easy kind of talk that arrives with darkness. When Eddie grew tired of checking every corner of the garden, he jumped on the chaise and flopped down by our feet.

Sam threaded his fingers through mine. “I’m glad you’re in my life, Theodora. I hope you’ll let me stick around.”

I leaned my head against his shoulder. “I’m glad you’re in my life, too. Thanks for talking me off the ledge tonight. If you hadn’t been here, I’d already be on my way to Kentucky.”

“It’s obvious how much you loved your brother, but I just don’t want you getting hurt anymore.”

“I wish you could have known him, Sam. He was amazing. Animals and little children were drawn to him in ways I can’t describe. He had a . . . I guess you’d call it an
energy
about him. He was very gentle.”

Sam kissed my forehead. “Sometimes when you talk about your brother, I get the feeling you’re not telling me the full story. And if you don’t want to, that’s fine. But—”

“I’ve not lied to you, Sam. Not ever.”

“Whoa, hold on a minute. That’s not what I said or even implied. It’s just that I’ve noticed a certain reticence when you talk about Josh. There are times when you speak of him in the past tense and others when you use the present. I guess it’s the lawyer in me working overtime.”

I burrowed deeper into his shoulder. “After the fund-raiser for the rehabilitation center last autumn, I finally accepted that my brother was dead. It took me all winter to work through the grief. But then something came up that set my whole universe into a tilt. Now I honestly don’t know if Josh is alive or not. And there’s something I’ve wanted to tell you, but I’m scared.”

Sam turned and scanned my face. “I never want you to be scared. I want you to feel safe with me. Always.”

“I
do
feel safe with you. And I’ve told you everything about Josh, except . . . except for this one little thing.”

As Sam waited for me to elaborate, I looked into the sky and gazed at the expanse of stars, wondering if my brother was watching them, too. Was he thinking about me as I was thinking of him? Was this the connection he spoke about when he had described being awake?

I could feel the rise and fall of Sam’s steady breathing. Without looking at him, I whispered, “I . . . I have this arrow . . .”

Sam listened and never uttered a word, nor did the calm expression on his face change. When I’d finished talking, he didn’t look at me. I wondered if I’d made a terrible mistake, but I knew sooner or later I would have to tell him the whole story.

“So,” he said, resting his arm behind his head, “a demented guy got waxed by an arrow from an unknown marksman. Sounds like a victory for the gene pool if you ask me. But better I should paraphrase a quote by Clarence Darrow: ‘
I have never killed a man, but I have read some obituaries with great pleasure
.’”

Sam turned toward me, his face serious. “As fascinating as your story is, Theodora—and yes, it
is
fascinating—I want you to know something. None of it matters to me in the way you might think.” He raised his hand toward the sky and made a circle with his thumb and forefinger. “That’s right, a big fat zero. Not one bit of it has anything to do with you. Or us.”

I couldn’t recall when I’d felt so relieved. “I wanted to tell you about it last week when we went for that long walk, but I was worried what you’d think of me and my family. How you might judge us—especially my brother. And the worst part is that I have no idea if the arrow I found in the barn has anything to do with what happened in Clifty Wilderness. It’s an awful secret to carry around, Sam.”

He held me closer, and we lay in silence for several minutes. Right when I wondered if he had drifted off to sleep, he turned toward me. “Well, Theodora, I have a secret, too. I’ve been debating when I should tell you, but I think now is the perfect time. So listen up, okay?”

I smiled. The last person I’d heard use the words “listen up
”
was Mr. Palmer.

“The day I saw you standing on my front porch, something hit me. It hit me again when I saw you in the café. And then, when you asked for coffee with
four
sugars, I knew what it was. And see, it’s the damnedest thing, but every time we’re together, it keeps hitting me.”

Sam abruptly stopped talking. I waited, and when he didn’t say anything more, I gave him a nudge. “What is it?”

“Are you sure you want to know?”

“Yes.”

“And no matter what it is, you won’t judge me?”

“Promise.”

Even in the darkness, I could see a glint in his eyes when he pressed his nose to mine. “I’m in love with you. That’s right,
Miss
Theodora Grace Overman. I love you. And no mysterious arrow is going to change that fact. Not now, not ever. So keep that thought in your pretty head.”

Sam tucked a loose strand of hair behind my ear, his hand lingering. “But I do have a question. Do you think, maybe sometime, you’d be real sweet and tell me that you love me, too?”

I opened my mouth, but Sam touched his fingers to my lips. “Don’t answer. Not now. Surprise me.”

F
ollowing that evening something within me shifted. Not that I experienced anything so monumental as an epiphany, but the days loosened and the nights softened. Maybe that’s what love does—smooths the hard edges of life, giving us a gentle place to land when we fall and lessening our bruises when we do.

When Jeb had called to give me an update, somewhere deep in that quiet center where we feel the weight of our truths, I already knew what he would tell me—the injured boy had indeed found my letter in the old pickle jar, exactly where I’d left it.

But there was a surprising twist.

Earlier that morning the boy had learned of my brother and his disappearance. And the person who’d told him about it was sweet old Norma who ran the ticket booth for the Natural Bridge Sky Lift. When the boy, a sixteen-year-old native of Kentucky named Paul Jameson, came upon my pickle jar, he was fascinated. But he couldn’t open it because the lid had rusted. So he broke the jar against a rock to see what was folded inside. Paul said he was stunned when he read the letter and realized it had been written to the missing boy Norma had told him about earlier that same day. He said he knew he had a piece of Kentucky’s history and thought it might be valuable one day.

When Jeb told me that although the boy had suffered multiple fractures, he was expected to make a full recovery, I breathed a sigh of relief. Paul Jameson was one of the few who took a fall in the Gorge and was lucky enough to tell the story.

Unfortunately, I wasn’t as lucky.

I belonged to a club where the dues were unimaginable—a club where members lived each day not knowing what had become of a loved one. Though our circumstances varied, one thing was constant: We couldn’t stop waiting for a miracle. Over the years I had experienced the convoluted kind of grief that accompanies the unknown. It was a twisting, churning process that had the power to drive even the strongest and most faithful to the brink of madness. When the pain was too much, we’d let go and try to get on with our lives, only to have the next day, month, or year bring us a slender thread of hope that more often than not broke in our hands.

Statistics were never in our favor.

It was my home and my relationship with Sam that kept me grounded in ways I hadn’t before experienced. And for the first time since I’d moved to Charleston, I felt as if I’d crossed the line of initiation and become a true Charlestonian—not born and bred, but that I belonged just the same. Olivia claimed that Charleston had embraced me from the moment of my arrival, and in retrospect I realized that was true. From Mr. Palmer to Albert to Tedra Calhoun and the surprise her husband had left for me beneath his breakfast plate, Charlestonians had indeed opened their arms.

Olivia also claimed that Sam was the best thing that had ever happened to me, and though I was reluctant to give any relationship that much power, I had to agree. She and I talked about it early one Sunday morning as we browsed through a yard sale.

“Sam’s good for you,” Olivia said while examining a small writing desk. “It’s about time you stopped working all those crazy hours and started having fun. You know, I was all set not to like him, but did that ever change when I met him. Sam’s a great guy.”

“He likes you, too. He thinks you’re a firecracker.”

She smiled as if she liked that idea. “Any news on his mother?” Olivia asked as she opened the pencil drawer.

“From the things Sam has told me, I get the feeling she’s nearing the end. She’s unresponsive and hasn’t said a word in weeks.”

“It’s sad. I hope she takes her last breath sooner rather than later—for both their sakes.” Olivia ran her hand over the top of the desk and looked at me. “I really like this. Do you think it would work in my bedroom?”

I stepped back and took a good look. “The scale isn’t right. It would be dwarfed by your other furniture.”

“Damn. I think you’re right.”

“So what about the plumber—how’s that going?”

Olivia sounded a bit annoyed when she said, “He has a name, you know.”

“Sorry. I guess he’ll always be ‘the plumber
’
to me.” I set down the mercury-glass candlestick I was admiring and looked at her. “So tell me more about
Michael.
”

“I like him a lot,” she said, lifting a pearl-handled letter opener and squinting at the price tag. “He’s coming over tonight—we’re making pizza together. Do you know what he does that I love? He reads to me. Sometimes he pulls a book from my shelf and I curl up with my head on his lap and he just reads and reads. He’s not like anyone I’ve ever dated.”

“And now for the next question: Are you glad I smashed your faucet?”

From over her shoulder, Olivia looked at me, her lips curving into a lopsided smile. “Yeah. But thank God he wasn’t a fireman or you’d have burned down my house.”

Sunday, December 6, was a brilliant, blue-skied day. Sam and I arrived at the nursing home with a bouquet of flowers, a chocolate cake, and several gifts tied with colorful ribbons. I rapped on the door and peeked in to see if Grammy was dressed. She was waiting for us and had chosen to wear a raspberry pink sweater over a yellow flannel housedress. On her head was a periwinkle blue velveteen hat with a red paper flower pinned to the brim. I set down the cake, and when I hugged her, I detected the faintest scent of baby powder.

Sam leaned down and kissed my grandmother’s cheek. “Happy Birthday, Belle. You look pretty.”

“I do?” She sounded so young, so delighted to receive a compliment from a man, that I got a lump in my throat.

“Yes, Belle, you certainly do. I like your sweater.”

She touched the sleeve reverently. “Teddi gave it to me.”

“Are you sure you don’t want to go out for a drive?” I asked, fiddling with the flower on her hat. “Sam said he’d take you anywhere you’d like to go.”

She thought for a moment. “Well, you know what I’d like?”

“Just name it, Belle, and it’s yours,” Sam said.

Grammy reached for his hand. “I’d like it if you’d push me around the block.”

“Then a birthday ride you’ll have.”

I got her into a jacket, and then Sam grasped the handles of the wheelchair and pushed her out the door while I grabbed the afghan from the end of her bed in case she got cold.

As we headed out the front door and down the ramp, we approached Mr. Lamb sitting in a spot of sun. Though it was unseasonably warm for December, he had a stocking cap on his head and was wrapped in a blanket that looked like a dried-out cocoon. “Where you off to, Belle?” he asked in a quivery voice.

“My granddaughter and her beau are takin’ me on a birthday ride.”

Mr. Lamb perked up. “How young are you today?”

“Ninety-four!” Grammy proudly announced.

“Ahhh . . . you’re just a kid,” Mr. Lamb said with a chuckle. “I’ll be ninety-nine come March. You gonna have cake?”

“Yes. My granddaughter made chocolate. I’ll save you a piece,” Grammy said with a wave of her arthritic hand.

Down the walk and across the driveway we went, heading for the sun-dappled sidewalk. Grammy seemed tickled by Sam’s many questions about her life. With stunning detail she recounted what it was like to live off the land in the foothills of Kentucky and how by the age of fourteen she’d sold enough of her homemade jams, jellies, and bread at the side of the road to buy her mother a milking cow.

“Might seem hard to believe,” my grandmother said with a laugh, “but when I was a young girl, I drove the boys crazy. My pa used to chase ’em off our land with a scythe. Oh, you shoulda seen those boys run! When I was sixteen, a young man walked onto our property with a bouquet of wildflowers in his hand. When my pa saw him comin’, he did like always and grabbed his scythe. I’ll never forget how he stood in front the house, turning the scythe real slow so the sun sparkled on the blade. But that young man held his head high and just kept on walkin’ straight toward my pa. It was the bravest thing I’d ever seen! His name was Otto Forrester. A year later we were married, and it wasn’t too long before he and my pa were thick as thieves.”

Sam let out a hearty laugh while Grammy launched into another story. She was having so much fun that she kept asking if we could go farther, and by the time we arrived back at the nursing home, we had pushed her for well over an hour. My grandmother was so tired from all the talking and fresh air that she fell asleep before unwrapping her last gift. So I removed her hat and tucked a pillow behind her head, and then Sam and I quietly left the room.

I laced my arm through his as we walked down the corridor and out the door. While crossing the parking lot, we laughed about how animated and entertaining my grandmother had been.

“She’s a remarkable woman,” Sam said, opening the car door for me. “And a great storyteller.”

He held the door, but I didn’t get in. Instead I turned to face him.

The time had come.

“Sam, I haven’t told you everything. I have one last secret.”

His smile faltered ever so slightly. “You do?”

“Yes,” I said, looking down at my shoes. “And I can’t go any further in our relationship without telling you.”

There was no mistaking the concern in Sam’s voice when he said, “What is it, Teddi?”

Slowly, I raised my head and looked into his eyes. I was surprised how easily the words came. “I’m in love with you, Sam.”

Though I wasn’t certain, I thought he exhaled the slightest sigh of relief as he wrapped his arms around me and spoke into my ear. “I suspected as much, Theodora. But it’s nice to hear you say it. Real nice.”

We stood in the parking lot, making out like sex-crazed teenagers, and when I thought Sam might try to take things too far, he stepped back, held me at arm’s length, and smiled. Just then an elderly couple came walking across the parking lot holding hands, both of them dressed in their Sunday best. I was shocked when Sam called out to them, “Guess what? She loves me!”

And love Sam I did—fully and freely and without reservation. Even during those rare moments when I feared what would happen to me if we ever split up, I knew the flight into the crazy skies of love would always outweigh the uncertainty of days that didn’t yet belong to me.

Sam would often show up at my house with bags full of groceries. He’d ignite my old stove and cook something divine while I sat at the kitchen table sketching designs for trompe l’oeil commissions or compiling lists of supplies Albert and I needed for the shop.

In January I was in bed watching late-night TV when a dance competition came on. I watched the couples move in ways that left me mesmerized. I lay propped up on pillows, longing to learn the tango and the cha-cha, and I fell asleep fantasizing about Sam and me dancing across my moonlit patio. The next evening I asked him if he’d consider taking dance lessons with me, and though he claimed to have no sense of rhythm, he was a good sport, so we signed up for an eight-week Latin dance course for beginners. Neither one of us was very good, but we had tons of fun, and by the end of the fifth week we could do our own version of a steamy tango that ended with Sam driving us back to my house in a fevered rush. Then we’d race up the stairs and dive into bed.

I laughed when, after dance class one evening, Sam pushed back the bedsheet and moved sweat-dampened strands of my hair across the pillow. “Teddi, maybe we should just try doing a simple polka.”