You're Still the One (30 page)

Jane lifted the glove to her nose and sniffed. Smudge’s blood had a pleasant garlicky-oregano aroma. “What did you have for lunch today?”

Erin sniffed. “Pizza. I had some left over from last night, so I got the box out of the fridge and put it on the table, grabbed a piece and . . .” Her face fell as a possibility occurred to her.

“And left it on the table while you watched television, maybe?” Jane prompted.

Erin’s eyes widened, and a flush crept into her cheeks. A tomato-colored flush, appropriately enough.

“You’ll probably find little paw prints in the remaining slices in the box. But I think all Smudge needs is a bath.”

“I’m so sorry,” Erin said. “And y’all are so busy!”

“Never so busy that we don’t like a happy ending,” Jane told her as she wiped more sauce off Smudge with a towel.

“I guess I just got so upset that I didn’t stop to think. I was so worried that something was really wrong, and that I’d be . . .”

Her voice broke off and Jane didn’t press her to finish. She knew . . .
and that I’d be alone again.

After she’d returned Smudge to his carrier and collected herself, Erin touched her hand to Jane’s arm. “I don’t know how I’m going to get through these crises without you.”

Jane rolled her eyes. “Not you, too.”

“Isn’t it true, then?”

Sadly, she didn’t have to discuss what “it” was. “
It
hasn’t been discussed.”

Erin looked relieved. “Oh good.” Then she looked guilty. “I mean, that’s good for me. You’re practically my last friend from school still around. And we were just talking at the salon about how we’d all miss you.”

“So many people have me moving, I’m already beginning to miss me, too.”

Erin laughed. “We need to have a night out. Paint the town red—or at least a dusty pink. After Roy leaves, let’s get together.”

Jane seconded that motion, even as her heart constricted a little.
After Roy leaves.
Her brain just didn’t want to wrap itself around that.

 

 

It felt as if every person in Mesquite Creek had turned out for the opening of the new auditorium. The high school marching band, decked out in full uniform, marched up Main Street from the Food Saver to the campus, followed by a caravan of cars carrying local dignitaries. Along the way, people sat in folding chairs or stood outside the smattering of businesses, watching. Jane was among them. Her father had told her about all the plans for the day. Still, she couldn’t hold back astonishment when Roy drove by in an open convertible next to the congressman.

Jane had taken the afternoon off to see Roy give his speech, and Kaylie was covering the event for
The Buzz.
They’d had to park a little ways from the school, since Jared and the other policemen had closed off Main Street to parking. By the time they arrived at the auditorium, it was almost full.

“Oh! I see someone.” Kylie waved at Tom Anderson, editor of
The Buzz,
who was sitting on the other side and had an empty seat next to him. “I can probably get a ride when this is over, Jane.”

Jane nodded and hung back. The new auditorium was twice as big as the old one, with a real stage and curtains, instead of a narrow raised platform. The seats were nice, too—like theater seats instead of the old, hard folding wood seats that had made long assemblies and ceremonies a torment. She would have liked to try out one of those seats, but the place was full. All the students and faculty were in attendance, and just a small section had been saved for visitors.

Onstage, the Skeeter choir was singing “Wind Beneath My Wings.” In front of them, a podium awaited. To the side of it was a line of chairs that started filling up with the speakers for the day.

She scanned the crowd until she saw a cluster of men working their way up to the stage. Her father was among them, as was Roy. She felt absurdly impressed by the fact that he was wearing a suit—a really nice one, dark with a striped tie. She’d seen him dressed up before, but never looking so like a grownup. So like what he was. A man who could get an auditorium built.

Her father was first to the podium, to welcome everyone. He talked about the importance of having a place to gather—to commemorate, to celebrate and entertain, to honor and remember. He reminded them that in the next two weeks alone, the auditorium would be the venue for the year’s senior play, and then the very next week would witness members of that class graduate. Someone from the audience shouted out a joke about june bugs, and it took her father a few seconds to stifle the laughter and pass the mike to the congressman.

The congressman talked and talked, praising the building and its primary funder so lengthily that Jane was pretty sure he’d lose votes in the next election for sheer windbaggery. She took advantage of the time he was droning on to look at Roy again. How far he’d come in the world had never struck quite so forcefully until now, seeing him back here where he’d started. Where they’d both started. Once or twice she thought he caught her eye, but she couldn’t be sure. There were a few stage lights on, so it was possible that people up there couldn’t actually pick out individuals in the crowd.

She was relieved and—she had to admit—a little nervous when the congressman wound up the speech and started in on a long intro to Roy, sketching out his modest beginnings and listing his big achievements, including a Clio, various other business awards whose names meant nothing to Jane, and finally, this auditorium. The crowd clapped and rose to their feet as Roy stood, shook the man’s hand, and took his place at the podium.

Jane wished she’d found a seat, because her legs jittered with nerves. She crept along the side of the auditorium, as much from restlessness as from the need to get a little closer. She missed the first line of Roy’s speech, which got a laugh. He seemed to be looking down at notes; obviously he hadn’t wasted his time the night before.

But he sounded wooden—even though she knew he meant every word about his gratitude toward the town, and how he wished his mom could be there. If there was a heaven, Wanda McGillam was the happiest person in it today. Jane glanced around the audience to see if anyone else noticed that Roy seemed a little stiff, but all the faces turned toward the stage appeared rapt. She finally picked her mom out in the crowd. Even Brenda seemed entranced. But none of these people knew Roy like Jane did. They couldn’t have heard the slight tension in his throat, the hesitation as he tackled the next bullet point on his note cards.

Finally, it seemed as if his speech was heading for the finish line. He addressed the students, and at once his voice changed, became more natural and conversational. He no longer even glanced at his notes. “I especially appreciate your being here, not just because the building is for you, but because I know it might not seem like that big a deal to you. What’s an auditorium? What’s it to me? you might be asking. Until I was seventeen, I would have been scrunched down in my seat toward the back row, probably doodling, only half paying attention. Because I didn’t know that the next year I’d be cast in a play, and that play—
Romeo and Juliet
—would change my life. Not just because I got the chance to recite Shakespeare. I wasn’t that good at that, frankly. And I didn’t look so hot in the costumes, either.”

Chuckles rippled through the audience, and it felt as if the entire audience leaned forward a little in their seats.

“Up till then, I didn’t understand how full of possibilities life really was,” Roy continued, more eagerly. “I had dreams, sure, but I didn’t have a lot of confidence. The play gave me that.” He frowned. “No,
Jane
gave me that.”

For a fraction of a second, she wondered if maybe she’d just imagined that he’d mentioned her name. Maybe it had just been an aural hallucination. But then Roy turned toward her, picked her out with his gaze as if she were the only person listening. The only person who mattered. The audience tracked his gaze and pivoted toward her.

“Jane,” Roy repeated.

Heat rushed to her face.

“I know you don’t trust this,” he said to her, as intimately as if there weren’t several hundred people looking on. “We took separate roads—but that doesn’t mean we can’t go back. No”—he shook his head—“not back. Forward. Life is still full of possibilities for us. And one of them is us, together. Jane—”

Is he really doing this?
Panic coursed through her. In that moment between sentences, Roy was a man stepping off a curb into the path of an oncoming bus. She wanted to wave her hands at him, shake her head, yell at him to stop. She had a horrible feeling that he was going to—

“—I love you. Will you marry me?”

A collective gasp went up, and she could have sworn she heard something drop. Probably her mother hitting the floor in a dead faint.

She’d never been so close to passing out herself. Her face was on fire, and though she couldn’t look out at the people sitting in the seats—that would have been death—their gazes felt like a force field. She was frozen in place, fighting off successive waves of love, anger, panic. Could she marry Roy? Was this really the place to figure that out, right this moment? Did he actually expect her to answer
now
?

Apparently, he did. He was waiting for her answer. So were a few hundred other people.

Seconds ticked by. Dragged by like centuries. Someone cleared their throat.

Love. Anger. Panic.

Panic won.

Jane turned and fled the auditorium as fast as her legs would move.

Aunt Ona exhaled a dragonlike stream of smoke. “That was seriously weird.”

Roy half expected her to laugh at him, but she didn’t. She just stared fixedly at the cloud she’d created, her mind no doubt replaying those indecisive moments in the auditorium—agonizing to Roy, then and now—before Jane had pivoted on her heel and sprinted for the door.

She shook her head in amazement. “I never thought of her as the athletic type, but she can move pretty fast when she needs to, can’t she?”

If only he had been able to escape as quickly. Instead, he’d been trapped onstage, frozen in shock and disappointment. Eventually the four hundred pairs of eyes that had been focused on Jane’s crazed dash turned back to him. Including the school superintendant’s harsh glare. Amid a rising buzz of chatter, Mr. Canfield finally pushed Roy aside at the podium and thanked everyone for coming. He then directed the choir to sing their planned closing song, which was a distracted rendition of “Let the River Run.” Roy winced every time the solo singer had drawn out the phrase about her heart aaaaaaaaaaaching. When the speakers stood to go, he hadn’t been able to get out of there fast enough.

“You know,” Ona said, “even if you hadn’t donated a truckload of money, this town might have named that auditorium after you just for coming down and giving that speech. Bet they’ll be talking about it longer than they talked about Liston Pruitt scoring the goal on the buzzer at the state championship in ’56.”

“Too bad they don’t give out trophies for being an ass,” Roy grumbled. “They could give me one and show it off as an example of how not to propose to a woman.”

“Ha. Consider yourself dipped in bronze, because right now you’re pretty much a walking example.” His aunt clucked at him. “Have you talked to her since?”

“She wasn’t at the clinic today, and she’s not answering my calls.” He let out a long breath. “But why should she? She gave me her answer.”

“You can say that again.”

“Look,” Roy said, “the reason I called you over here is that I talked to Lou. I told him to go ahead and accept the offer on the house.”

Ona’s jaw dropped. “I thought you said it was too low.”

He shrugged. “A house is worth what someone’s willing to pay for it. Besides, it’s some family moving in from out of town. I’d like to think of a family living here.”

“And you just want to get it over with.” Ona stabbed her cigarette onto an old chipped saucer that hadn’t been deemed sale-worthy. “Well, sounds good to me.”

“I figured it would,” he said. “The cleaners are still scheduled for tomorrow. Could you let them in?”

Ona’s eyes widened. “You’re leaving that quick?”

“Tomorrow, around noon. I don’t see any reason to stick around. I can handle all the details of the sale by fax.”

“What about the details of getting Jane back?”

Roy tensed and felt his lips turning down into a frown. “I don’t think there’s any
back
about it. For a while I thought . . . But maybe we were just clutching at something out of nostalgia.”

Ona looked as if she was going to give him an argument, but then she let out a long breath. “I’m glad we’re selling this place, at any rate. It seemed stupid to pass up a decent offer.”

When Ona left, he felt a crazy kind of sadness. His aunt was his closest living relative right now, and the only tie left to his mom. And Mesquite Creek.

Maybe he would invite her to visit him. She’d have fun in the city—his mom had always gotten a kick out of it—and surely he and Ona could stand each other’s company for a few days.

When he heard someone walking up to the porch just after Ona had left, he opened the door, expecting she’d come back for something she’d forgotten. The invitation was on the tip of his tongue, but died when he saw Jane beneath the porch light, her hand raised to knock.

He felt speechless. Too bad he couldn’t have felt that way this afternoon.

“Can I come in?” she asked.

“I’ve been calling you.” He shifted his feet. “Also went by your house.”

“I hung out at Erin’s for a while.”

He stepped aside, allowing her to pass through. In the small foyer they almost brushed one another, and for a moment he caught the faint scent of a flowery perfume. He closed his eyes a moment, then followed her into the empty living room. A stubborn optimism rose in his chest, but he didn’t want to get his hopes up too high. Also, he couldn’t help feeling a trace of bitterness. Maybe he had instigated the awkward incident at the auditorium, but she hadn’t smoothed things over any.

“I came to apologize,” she said. “I guess I looked pretty silly this afternoon . . .”

“Not as silly as I did, according to Ona,” he assured her.

The words didn’t appear to comfort her. “You just surprised me. If I’d had any warning . . .”

“I surprised me, too. I don’t know what happened—one minute I was talking about the auditorium, the next I was proposing. I guess I should have practiced my speech more.”

“Then you didn’t mean it. I didn’t think you could have.”

“No,” he said, making sure that she was looking him in the eye. “I meant every word.”

He felt that strong tug between them, pulling them toward each other.

She broke the connection with a toss of her head. “But that’s just crazy. Marriage? We’ve only talked to each other—what?—ten times in the past nine years?”

He smiled. “Are you saying we don’t know each other well enough yet?”

“There’s knowing and there’s
knowing
,” she said.

“Jane, we’re as close as two people can be already. We might have spent too much time apart, but I’ve been alone most of that time. And why? Because you set the bar high, Jane. You’re smart, and funny, and compassionate, and an incredible lover—”

She raised her hand, traffic cop–style, stopping him. “Those are words.”

He closed the distance between them. “What else is there? We fell in love over words, remember?” He lifted her hand to his cheek, as he had all those years ago. “ ‘For I ne’er saw true beauty till this night.’ ”

She stepped back. “Roy, we’re not seventeen anymore. We’re talking about living together. Marriage. And just seeing each other this past week has been bumpy. We’re grownups, with different lives.”

“ ‘For you and I are past our dancing days,’ ” he said.

She practically hopped, in a Yosemite Sam stamp of frustration. “Will you stop quoting at me? It’s irritating! I can’t think.”

“I don’t want you to think. I want us to run away together, like we should have years ago.”

“Okay—there you go again. You think I should have run away with you to Seattle.”

“It’s a great city.”

“Sure, but it’s a thousand miles away from my home, my parents, and my friends—not to mention the clinic.”

“We’ll work something out.”

“How?” she asked. “Are you going to move your studio to Mesquite Creek?”

“I have forty people to think of, remember?”

“So what you mean is,
I’ll
work something out. I’ll pick up and follow you.”

He took a deep breath. He couldn’t tell if they were making progress or not. “Is that your only objection? Geography?”

“It’s a big objection. And . . .” She bit her lip.

“What?”

She hesitated, then blurted out, “I don’t trust you. You left. For years. No phone calls, didn’t seek me out when you visited. Just cut me out of your life. And now you’re back—and you’ve decided in a week that you want me to go back with you. Just like that.”

“I was wrong. I was twenty-two, and hurt by your decision. We’d been going out since we were seventeen. I didn’t realize what not having you in my life forever would be like.”

“But you never called, never wrote.”

“Neither did you. I thought you were choosing here over me.”

She gnawed this over for a moment. “I guess I was.”

Maybe she still was.

Her gaze focused on the carpet. “You blurt out things and make snap decisions. I can’t do that. I know it might not seem like much to you, but I have a life here. I need time.”

“I know, but . . .”

She glanced back up at him. “But what?”

He swallowed, sure this was going to be the wrong thing to say. But he couldn’t lie. “I’m leaving tomorrow.”

Her glance turned into a gape. “
Tomorrow?
You’re just taking off?”

He nodded. “I got a one o’clock flight.”

“But what about your mother’s house?”

“We’re selling it.”

“When did you decide that?”

“This afternoon. When I got back. Ona’s happy.”

“I’m sure she is.” She tilted her head. “I bet you are, too.”

“Believe me, right now I’m the opposite of happy.” He reached out, but she darted away before his hand could clasp her arm. If he could just touch her, kiss her . . . they could work everything out somehow.

She edged around him and started for the door. “I’m sorry, Roy. I can’t make the kind of jackrabbit life decisions you do. It’s not even fair of you to want me to.”

She left him before he could argue that he didn’t, which wouldn’t have been entirely truthful anyway. He
did
want her to go back with him. He did see them galloping off into the sunset together . . . or flying off into the wild blue yonder.

Roy closed the door behind her and then sank against it, depressed. He tried to look on the bright side—she had come to talk to him. On the other hand, she’d didn’t appear about to budge.

Maybe, given time . . .

He sighed. He felt woeful.

 

 

“It was romantic, you have to admit.” Erin twirled the last of her red wine around the bottom of her glass.

It was a water glass, Jane noticed.
I’m almost thirty-two, I make good money, and I don’t own any wineglasses.
She sank against the cushions, considering that fact. Roy took off, started a business, made millions. She bet his condo was loaded with wineglasses. Or at least enough of them to entertain. Meanwhile, here she’d been, living as if she was camping out waiting for Prince Charming. She’d had a lot of crust to lecture poor Marcy.

She straightened.

“You know what I’m going to do tomorrow?” she asked Erin. “First I’m going to rent a truck. Then I’m going to load up all this stuff and take it to the Salvation Army or someplace like that. And then I’m going to drive to Dallas this weekend and I’m going to shop till I drop. I’m going to buy wineglasses, and furniture—heavy furniture—and new silverware that isn’t just mismatched stuff that my relatives don’t want anymore. I’m going to buy a whole set of china—something beautiful and permanent that most people only expect to receive as wedding gifts. Eight place settings, along with all the extras. Gravy boats and soup tureens . . .”

Her friend studied her worriedly and then proceeded to cork up the wine bottle. “Maybe I shouldn’t have brought this over.”

It was nice of Erin to come check on her after the visit to Roy’s, especially since she had already spent part of her afternoon listening to Jane’s Roy lament. Erin hadn’t been at the auditorium, but she’d been appropriately dismayed by what had happened—and sympathetically indignant on Jane’s behalf. But it was she who had encouraged Jane to go see Roy this evening, pointing out that she couldn’t avoid the man forever.

Although apparently if she had waited another day to confront him, she could have. Because he would have been gone.

Because that’s how Roy operated.

Jane drained her glass. Not that she was drunk. In fact, she was finally seeing things clearly. “My life’s been in a holding pattern. But no more.”

“Gravy boats? This is a solution?” Erin’s brows arched. “Buying the trappings of a life for yourself. Sounds great.”

“It’s a start.”

“It’s a distraction. But you’ll probably figure that out after you’ve drained your savings account.” Erin stood and stretched. “It’s late. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.” She looked at her watch. “Which is actually already today.”

“But you want to come with me?” Jane asked her. “Sunday?” They both worked Saturdays.

“Oh sure. When have I ever passed up an invitation to go soup-tureen shopping?”

After she left, Jane intended to go to sleep but ended up gathering all the boxes she could find in the apartment and in the garage below and tossing things in. Chipped bowls and ratty towels, clothes she hadn’t worn for ages or ever, videocassettes and college textbooks. She filled box after box, amazed at how little connection she felt to things. Then she ran across a shelf with her old yellowed copy of
Romeo and Juliet.

She flipped through it, impressed by the exhaustive margin notes overlaid with stage directions in green pen. Had she really been that obsessive about a school play, and that organized? On the inside of the back cover Roy had sketched her—relaxed, with her head resting against her hand. It was a good drawing, if way too flattering. Around the picture, he’d written in careful calligraphy,
O, that I were a glove upon that hand, that I might touch that cheek!

She could hear his voice saying the words, like a caress in her ear.

The letters blurred. She let out a strangled cry and tossed the book in a box next to a CD she barely remembered owning. It was as if Roy were trying to romance her retroactively.

To get the voice out of her head, she decided to vacuum.

Sometime around three, she fell into bed, exhausted.

Her six-thirty alarm went off like a firehouse bell in her ear. She careened out of bed and got ready as fast as she could, downing a coffee and two aspirin on the hoof. Maybe she’d had more wine than she thought.

Her mother was surprised to see her. “You poor thing! I saw your light on till all hours.”

Jane headed automatically to the fridge. She pulled out a container of orange juice and poured a glass. “Will you do me a favor? I need someone to take me to the rental-car place.”