Trusting Again (14 page)

“Then my work here is done. That’s what I was aiming for.” He kissed her temple before disentangling himself from her embrace. “And none too soon. I have to get to the airport. Want to drive my car or yours?” He pulled his keys out of his pants pocket and dangled them in front of her.

“You’d really let me drive yours?”

“Of course.”

“I’m not sure this is the best time for me to drive it. I may be a little distracted.”

He dropped the key ring onto the counter. “All right then. If you’d rather, we’ll save that experiment until I get back. Unless you want to give it a try while I’m gone. I’ll leave the keys here. Maybe you’ll want to take it on one of your trips to the coast.”

She drove her car to the airport and went in with him, standing at the security gate, watching him walk down the concourse until she couldn’t see him any longer, wondering — fearing — this was how it would all end; having him fade off into the distance until he was like some mirage of water in a desert.

Six Weeks Later

Had Portland always been so far away from Seattle? It had never seemed to take this long to get there before. Or was it these damned cars and trucks headed south, slowing down the traffic? Cynthia drove miles over the speed limit when she could, driving like Marius in the Porsche — no, she couldn’t think about that, think about him. Not until she had a chance to talk with Amanda. Why the hell was it taking so long to get there?

Like a good best friend, Amanda hadn’t questioned Cynthia when she’d called and said she needed to come to Portland — right now. Amanda had just answered “of course” when Cynthia asked to stay with her because she needed to be away from Seattle.

So here she was. Back on I-5 trying not to think about Marius Hernandez, closing yet another circle. Only this time, the tape in her head was longer and full of things she wasn’t sure she wanted to think about.

Funny, the time he’d been gone on his business trip was longer than the time they’d spent together. But they’d been in constant communication with each other and it seemed like they’d actually grown closer over the weeks. He courted and seduced her in long emails, lots of texts — in fact, they’d texted so many times, she’d come up against the limits of her data plan for the first time. And there were phone calls, during which she could hear him say he missed her and was counting the days until he came home, instead of just reading the words.

He described the places he was visiting, places she’d only read about or seen in movies: Costa Rica, Guatemala, Honduras, Panama, Nicaragua, Mexico. From places he said he would take her some day, he sent her the pictures she’d asked for via his iPhone — coffee plantations, exotic flowers, picturesque villages, big cities, even some of him with his coffee growers. Those were the ones she looked at every day. Her handsome Marius. Well, handsome Marius. She was still not sure he was really hers. Although she was more sure than ever that she was his.

She’d done everything she could to keep busy. She’d taken new work to Bellingham and visited for a couple days with her parents, gone to galleries in Tacoma and Olympia and on the Long Beach peninsula, shipped new work to Liz in Portland.

Gradually, the weeks passed, the end was in sight. She was counting the days until he got home, eagerly looking forward to seeing him. Until just a few days ago.

She pulled up in front of Amanda’s house in Northeast Portland, took a deep breath and went to the front door. Time to face it.

Amanda and Chihuly, her curly-coated retriever, greeted her and led her to the kitchen where her husband, Sam Richardson, was working on his laptop. As always, Sam had a kiss for Cynthia. Then the three of them settled in around the kitchen table to visit until Sam got bored with glass and art gossip and left for his daily run, creating the opportune moment for Cynthia to tell her friend why she was there.

But Kat, Amanda’s six-month old baby, woke from her nap and needed attention, a clean diaper, and some food. Cynthia didn’t mind. She was Kat’s godmother and hadn’t seen her in awhile so she fussed over the baby, eliciting the kitten-like purrs that had been the genesis of her nickname.

By the time that was all taken care of, it was close to five. Amanda pulled out a bottle of wine, set a glass in front of Cynthia and suggested they go into the living room to talk.

“I’ll pour you a glass of this and we can get comfortable and chat. I’m still not drinking because I’m nursing, but you shouldn’t have to suffer because of that.” She uncorked the bottle and was about to pour when Cynthia pushed the glass away.

“No, no thanks. No wine for me either.”

“You don’t have to join me in my non-drinking.”

“I know. I’m just not drinking right now.”

Amanda laughed as she opened the refrigerator to return the bottle of wine. “I never thought I’d hear you say that until you got pregnant.” Her hand froze on the refrigerator door. Then she whirled around, the bottle still in her hand. “Oh, my God, is that why you’re here? You’re not pregnant … are you?” She inspected her friend’s face. “You are, aren’t you?”

Cynthia gulped hard before saying out loud, for the first time, “Yeah, I’m pregnant.”

Amanda waited, seeming to expect her friend to say something else, but when Cynthia merely played with the empty wine glass, she said, “I can’t tell from your face if you think this is good or bad.”

“I haven’t decided how I feel about it. I just took the pregnancy test — well, a whole bunch of pregnancy tests — yesterday. And I’m still stunned.”

“It’s none of my business, but didn’t you … ?”

“Yes, we used protection. Every single time. But sometimes, even the most careful precautions don’t work.”

“I know. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to sound judgmental.”

“You didn’t. I’m just a little defensive. And sensitive. On top of being stunned.”

Amanda put the wine and the glass away before asking the next question. “Have you told Marius? What did he say?”

“I haven’t told him. He’s still out of town; he won’t be back in Seattle for another few days. And this isn’t something I wanted to tell him in a text message. Or even on the phone. I want to see his face when I tell him, so I can see how he really feels.” Cynthia played with her braid for a few moments.

She continued, “That’s why I’m here. I’m avoiding him. He’s in San Francisco and I’m sure he’s been trying to call me, but I’ve been ignoring the phones, not looking to see who’s called. I don’t know what to say, how to talk to him, without sounding weird. I even left home without my cell so I wouldn’t be tempted to answer it.”

“How were things when he left?”

“Good. They were good. After our vacation in the San Juans, I stayed with him for five days until he left on this trip. It was so comfortable; it was almost like we’d lived together for years. I got a little antsy about his leaving, wondering if he was coming back, but I’ve heard from him regularly since he’s been gone, just like he said.”

“Do you love him?”

“God, yes. More than anything in the world.”

“Does he love you?”

“He hasn’t exactly said it. He said he cares for me, calls me
mi amor
, my love. He signs all his messages with love and always says he misses me. He acts like he does, but he’s never said the words. I don’t know. I’m … confused, I guess, would be the best description.”

“Okay, let’s leave him out of it for now. Suppose he’s not in the picture. What would you do then? Would you terminate the pregnancy?”

“That was my first impulse. But the more I thought about it, the less it seemed like what I wanted to do. It doesn’t feel like the right choice for me. I’m almost thirty years old. I’ve always wanted to have children. This may be my only chance. If he walks away, I think I can do this on my own.” She looked up at her friend and asked plaintively, “Can’t I? I mean, do you think I can?”

“Sweetie, you can do anything you set your mind to. Since we were in college, I’ve watched you do things I wouldn’t have been brave enough to try. I had a trust fund to fall back on when I decided to follow my heart and be an artist. You didn’t and you’ve made it work. But don’t you think you should give him a chance first, before you decide you’ll have to do this on your own?”

“I guess.”

“He deserves to know. But whatever you decide, I’ll be there for you — we’ll be there for you — every step of the way.”

Just as Amanda pulled her friend into a hug, Sam walked back in. He looked at the two women. “This looks seriously not about glass. What’d I miss?”

“Girl stuff,” Amanda said. “But I think it will require you to be a single father this evening.”

“I’ve done that before,” he said with a grin. “My boys will tell you I do okay with it.”

“Except that Sammy and Jack are much happier with the meals they get on their weekends with you now that we’re married and you’re not making them eat green eggs and ham for dinner.”

“True. But at this stage of her life, Kat’s not in any danger of having to put up with my abysmal cooking. I can manage to get a bottle of breast milk into her without incident. And I’m hell on dirty diapers.” He started for the steps before asking, “Why am I going to be alone with my daughter tonight? Not that it matters. Just curious.”

“I’m dumping you as my date for the opening of the big glass exhibit at the Art Museum and taking Cynthia instead. I’ll call and cancel the babysitter. You don’t mind, do you?”

“Christ, no. I forgot we were supposed to go to that. It’s not that I don’t enjoy looking at glass, but I had a helluva week. A quiet evening with my daughter is much more appealing than the thought of standing around the Art Museum making small talk. In fact, to show you how much I appreciate being able to stay home, I’ll volunteer to get take-out for us after I have a shower. Can’t go to one of those things on an empty stomach.”

• • •

Cynthia hadn’t brought anything even vaguely appropriate for an opening night at the Art Museum and Amanda was much shorter than she was, so there was no chance of borrowing clothes. Amanda insisted that a new dress and a pair of frivolous shoes would make her feel better. They waited for Sam to finish his shower then took off for the nearest Nordstrom’s.

On the way there Amanda giggled like a kid, reliving all the times she had taken over dressing Cynthia for a big event or an important date when they were in college. While Cynthia had never been much interested in clothes and make-up, Amanda had been a pro. This was her chance to see if she’d lost her touch, she said. She didn’t want to get out of practice before Kat grew up and needed her.

It was obvious she was still as good as she’d been in college. When they arrived at what she deemed was the appropriate department, she corralled a saleswoman, told her what they — well, she — was looking for and joined the woman in tearing through racks of clothes on a mission to find just the right dress. So serious was the search that observers must have thought she was dressing Cynthia for tea with royalty.

Ten dresses made their way back to the dressing room where Cynthia was required to strip and try them on. As far as she was concerned, all of them were great, but Amanda was more critical: this one was too dowdy, that one too trashy, most were too ordinary or not enough something or another. Cynthia wasn’t always sure. Finally, the clear winner emerged.

The dress Amanda liked best — and Cynthia agreed was beautiful — was a soft peach color that complimented Cynthia’s fair skin and tawny hair. Its halter-top accented her breasts; the snug bodice showed off her trim waist; the short skirt bared enough of her long legs to make shorter women — read: Amanda — jealous.

To complete the long-legged look, the saleswoman brought a stack of stiletto heels from the shoe department for her. After trying them all on, Cynthia picked a pair of peep-toe, sling-back pumps with four-inch heels the exact color of the dress. She rationalized she’d be able to wear the shoes with other dresses, even though she knew she owned nothing else that color. She signed the required credit card slip without even looking at the total. In the grand scheme of her life at the moment, hundreds of dollars in unnecessary clothing was nothing. After a quick stop at the cosmetics counter for the right foundation and lipstick, they were on their way home.

Once back at the St. Claire/Richardson house, Amanda went to work on Cynthia’s hair and make-up. The up-do she created was more elaborate than anything Cynthia could have done by herself. Her make-up was professional yet subtle, again, more than anything she would ever contemplate much less accomplish on her own.

By the time they were finished, they were laughing, talking about some of their adventures in college, stories that Amanda swore Cynthia to secrecy about. There were things, she said, that were part of their college experience she had no plans to share with her daughter until Kat had at least a master’s degree and three children of her own.

To accessorize the new dress, they raided Amanda’s jewelry collection. Over the years, she had purchased enough of her friend’s work to have a nice selection from which to choose. They agreed on an early necklace that featured elaborate coral orange and pale green beads and had matching earrings.

Amanda dressed while Sam fetched dinner from their favorite Thai restaurant. All through the meal, Cynthia was nervous about dribbling Pad Thai on herself but she survived without a spill. At seven-thirty, after Amanda had fed Kat one more time and pumped enough milk to tide her over for the rest of the evening, the two women left for the opening.

The Portland Art Museum sits on the South Park Blocks, a twelve-block linear stretch of tree-lined quiet in the heart of the city. The two women were early enough and the evening pleasant enough that Cynthia asked to walk through the park before they went inside. It had been a while since she’d spent time there and this had been one of her favorite places when she was in college, after the Reed campus itself.

She loved not only the old trees that shaded the park but the public art on each block: Teddy Roosevelt on his horse looking his Rough Rider best. A modern installation of granite pillars called “Peace Chant.” A fountain donated by a Polish immigrant early in the twentieth century in gratitude for the success he’d found in the city.