Hidden Hearts

by Olivia Dade

  Mary immediately knew when and where the interview had taken place. There was no mistaking that shiny yellow graduation gown or the local theater where the ceremony had been held. And she kind of recalled the bored reporter, although it felt like the whole event had happened a million years ago.

  But she didn’t remember much more than that. Certainly not what she’d said or done during the interview.

  “So you’re the valedictorian of the Battlefield High School graduating class,” the reporter said, as the chyron at the bottom of the screen flashed Mary’s name. “Congratulations. What do you consider the keys to your success?”

  He was holding the microphone too low, so Mary ducked her head to answer.

  “Um…” She hesitated, nibbling at her lower lip. “Hard work, I guess. And I had great teachers.”

  “What are your post-graduation plans?”

  At that question, her shyness seemed to vanish. In a flash, she stopped biting her lip and nudged the reporter’s arm upward, so she could stand straight and tall.

  “I’m going to UCLA, and I’m so excited.” Mary watched her own, younger face light up. “I can’t wait to see Hollywood. And all the museums!”

  “Uh-huh.” The reporter’s eyelids drooped. “Fascinating.”

  “Have you ever seen the Hollywood Walk of Fame? Or Grauman’s Chinese Theater?”

  “Nope.”

  The man’s distinct lack of enthusiasm didn’t stop her. “And the Los Angeles County Museum of Art is the largest art museum in the western United States!”

  “Great. Congratulations again.” The man withdrew the microphone and looked back at the camera. “Well, that’s youthful energy for you, folks. For WNIC news, this is Arthur Saster.”

  Right before the video ended, it focused one last time on the young woman in the yellow graduation gown. She was beaming at the camera with her head high, the bridge of her nose crinkled with happiness, and her eyes bright with hope.

  No fear in their dark depths. Just joy and excitement.

  Oh, God, Mary had forgotten that girl. Dismissed her when the reality of life in LA had become too painful, too full of self-hatred and loneliness. Back then, any reminder of her former naïveté—the hopes she’d once cherished—had felt unbearable.

  But what about now?

  The website skipped to the next video, and Mary absently closed the window. But she didn’t move from her computer, just stared at the monitor without seeing a thing.

  For years, she’d thought her experiences in California had given her a realistic understanding of her own personality, had revealed her essential nature and the limits of what she could handle without breaking.

  She’d told herself she was naturally cautious. Quiet. Controlled. Fragile. But maybe that wasn’t true at all. Maybe she’d just needed a few years to recover from a hard time in her life.

  Look at Miles, she thought. His accident had scarred him and driven him into hiding, and he’d cloistered himself in his cabin with every intention of staying there forever. But that didn’t mean he wasn’t strong. That didn’t mean the timid, bitter recluse she’d first seen and loved was somehow all of him. That didn’t mean he wasn’t capable of shedding his brittle shell and reemerging into the light.

  She’d spent years mired in routine and familiarity. Avoiding risks and nursing her wounds. But maybe, like Miles, she was capable of more. Maybe she was capable of doing whatever the hell she wanted to do.

  So before she got in the shower and headed to her parents’ house, she had a call to make.

  Her best friend answered the phone after one ring.

  “Sarah?” Mary glanced at her calendar. “Are you up for a trip to D.C. tomorrow? Or Wednesday?”

  Sarah didn’t even hesitate. “It’s going to be a million degrees tomorrow. With two thousand percent humidity, so we probably won’t survive the visit. But sure. Let’s die next to each other, surrounded by free museums and an astoundingly phallic monument to our nation’s first true leader.”

  Mary smiled. “I’ll tell Chris where to find your melted remains.”

  “Sounds good. Let’s work out the details later today.” Right before Sarah hung up, Mary heard her call out to her boyfriend, “Baby, I’m dying tomorrow! So if you want a piece of me, now’s the time! Come and get it!”

  Mary turned for the shower, still grinning.

  At the very least, their trip to D.C. should prove entertaining. And if she was right, it should also prove enlightening. About her past. About what she wanted right now. And most importantly, about her future. A future she desperately hoped she could spend by the side of the man she loved.

  She hadn’t traveled to a big city in years. But she was willing to take the chance now.

  Out of love for Miles, yes. But also out of love for herself.

  * * *

  Late the next afternoon, Mary stood beside Sarah in the cool of the Smithsonian American Art Museum and studied a photograph by Martha Olson. Taken in 1970, it showed a young black girl in a cardigan, plaid skirt, and loafers. Pale bandages marked her hand and her bruised knee. She held a pencil in her injured hand and a notebook in her lap.

  She was looking directly into the camera lens, damaged but calm. Steadfast in the face of her wounds.

  She might as well have been Mary’s niece. Or heck, Mary herself as a child.

  The caption read: Norma Pearl Sartin covered with Band-Aids after first try at riding bicycle.

  “I know exactly how that poor kid feels.” Sarah scowled. “Bikes are just death machines disguised as transportation.”

  The photograph somehow nourished a part of Mary that had been starving for years. The part that craved culture. The part that wanted to see faces like hers in both art and everyday life. The part that welcomed new experiences and new knowledge.

  The part she’d ignored so steadfastly for so long.

  “I love Nice County.” Mary turned to Sarah. “But it can’t offer me anything like this picture.”

  A sweet, sad smile crossed her best friend’s face. “You’re thinking about moving, huh?”

  Mary nodded. “The idea of public scrutiny still scares me. But living in LA would have lots of advantages. Amazing museums. Travel. Movies. Different types of restaurants. Cultural events and people of all colors surrounding me. Everything I dreamed about when I was”—she gestured toward the photo—“her age.”

  “And you’d have Miles.”

  “And I’d have Miles.” Mary huffed out a laugh. “I miss him. Horribly.”

  Sarah hooked an arm around Mary’s waist. “I know, babe.”

  “But it’s not just about him. It’s about me, too. About how I fell down but never really got back up. Not like he did.”

  Not like Norma Pearl Sartin did, either. She’s just sitting there, looking at the camera, completely unintimidated. Unafraid, even though she’s bruised and bandaged. The next time she has a chance, she’s obviously climbing right back on that bike and kicking its butt.

  “Miles came to Nice County because he didn’t want to face his injury. So he buried himself in his cabin.” She licked her lips. “And I’ve been hiding too, because I didn’t have faith in myself anymore. So I haven’t taken a genuine risk in years. Not even for something I really wanted.”

  Sarah gave her a little squeeze. “And you’re ready to take a risk now?”

  Mary thought about it. To her relief, she’d found that big cities weren’t quite as intimidating when you had someone you loved by your side. The sight of so many people who looked like her, who looked like Norma Pearl, had lifted an invisible burden from her shoulders. And the museums…oh, goodness. She couldn’t get enough of the art, the history, and the architecture.

  Everything she’d seen today had ripped a hole in her cocoon, exposing her to the chaos and beauty of the outside world once again. And as it turned out, her curiosity hadn’t disappeared over the years. Neither had her hunger for more knowledge
and more culture. It was long past time to appease both.

  If she ran into trouble, if she began losing herself, she knew the signs now. She could gather her friends and family for support. She could get professional help. Heck, she could move back home a second time if she needed to.

  But in the meantime, she wanted more. From herself and for herself.

  “I’m ready to take a risk.” She leaned into Sarah, already aching at the thought of living across the country from her best friend. Together, they stared one last time up at the bandaged, self-contained girl in the chair. “And if I fall again, I plan to get right back up.”

  23

  Mary squinted in the California sun, trying to read the nondescript sign for the sushi restaurant. Her tired eyes were protesting after several long days of driving cross-country by herself. And goodness knew, battling the LA traffic hadn’t given them much of a respite.

  Adding to her stress levels: She’d left her car—packed full of all her remaining worldly belongings—parked in a random lot, where anyone could study its contents. But there’d been no choice. She’d had to jump on this opportunity.

  After over two weeks of preparation and thousands of miles traveled, the man she loved was finally within shouting distance again. Maybe. And she refused to leave until she saw him. She didn’t care if the paparazzi snapped a million photos of her or a thief made off with everything she owned. She wanted Miles. Now.

  She took a deep breath and swung open the restaurant door.

  Once her eyes adjusted, she could see that the place looked fancier inside than outside, all gleaming dark wood and clean lines and impeccably dressed diners. She could also see the host at the front watching her, suspicion clear in every line of his face.

  She supposed she did look a little rumpled. But no matter.

  “I’m here to see Miles O’Connor,” she announced.

  The man’s bushy brows rose. “Miles O’Connor? Who’s that?”

  She got it. She even appreciated it. The man was trying to protect Miles’s privacy—which must have been a tall order, given the media frenzy over his recent return to LA.

  Even though she would have welcomed some privacy for her reunion with him, she had to admit that the hubbub over his arrival—not to mention his missing arm—had proven handy. When Mary had despaired of finding Miles without calling him first, Angie had pointed out the utility of social media in tracking celebrity whereabouts.

  “Just search for his name on Twitter and Instagram. People who see Miles out in public will take pictures and post them, and then you’ll know exactly where he is,” Angie had said. “Also, check out the hashtags #polishmywoodMiles and #inspectmyladyhutMiles. His male and female fans tend to prefer different labels. And HATV is using #stillnaked. You have lots of options.”

  All his recent sightings had occurred near a specific neighborhood in LA. So as soon as Mary had reached that area, she’d pulled off the road and gone hunting on the internet. And lo and behold, fifteen minutes ago, @LAstarwhore had tweeted out a blurry cell phone photo and written: Naked Carpenter at Sushi Generis. #inspectmyladyhutMiles Want to order HIM naked on a pillow of rice! She’d ended the message with a little smiley face emoji, one that had its tongue sticking out.

  Mary could sympathize with @LAstarwhore’s excitement.

  She hoped to goodness that Miles hadn’t finished his meal and left before her arrival. That he hadn’t found someone else, someone more daring, in the past couple of weeks. That he still loved her.

  She hadn’t called him to confirm any of it. Not his presence at Sushi Generis. Not even his continued desire to have her by his side.

  All she’d done was send a brief message sixteen days ago, one that echoed an e-mail he’d written months before. She’d texted him from that museum in D.C. with Sarah peering over her shoulder: If my pity party ever ended, would you still want me with you in California?

  His response had arrived within moments: Of course.

  And after reading those two words, she’d thrown caution to the wind and followed her heart. She hadn’t written him again. She hadn’t called. She’d simply taken action, knowing what she’d chosen to do would speak more loudly than any text, any e-mail, any declaration of intent she could make.

  If she wanted to demonstrate her rediscovered willingness to take chances, what better way to do it than by giving her notice at the library, subletting her apartment, getting rid of most of her possessions, and moving across the country for a man she hadn’t seen or spoken to in over two weeks? All in blind faith that he’d still want her and she’d be able to cope with the unknown?

  Oh, heavens. It sounded much, much worse when she thought about it that way.

  “He was just here.” She took out her cell to show the host @LAstarwhore’s tweet. “See?”

  The man glanced toward the back room, the one with tall booths and views of the ocean, and then drew himself straight. “I can neither confirm nor deny his presence. Now, young lady, do you have a reservation?”

  No wonder Miles liked to eat here, if the host protected him that fiercely.

  Again, she saluted the man’s efforts. But Miles was sitting in one of those tall booths, only a few dozen feet away from her. She knew it. And she wasn’t giving up without one heck of a fight.

  A decade ago—or a month ago—she’d have hunched and hid, trying to make herself smaller. She’d have agonized over the contrast between all those slender, expensively clad, impeccably highlighted diners and herself. She’d have mumbled an apology and fled, defeated.

  Not this time.

  “I don’t have a reservation,” she told the man, her cheeks only a little hot. “And if you don’t want me to, I won’t go back to his booth. But could you tell him I’m here? My name is Mary Higgs. I’m his girlfriend.”

  At least, she hoped she was his girlfriend. Even though they’d broken up.

  Oh, jeez. Was all this a terrible mistake?

  The man stared at her like an errant speck of dirt on a plate. “If you’re his girlfriend, I imagine you could contact him some other way. For instance, by using that cell phone in your hand.”

  She couldn’t fault his logic, even though he clearly thought he’d outsmarted a liar. So she had two choices, as far as she could tell. She could either shout Miles’s name and hope he heard her, or take some good advice and give him a call.

  Sure, she wouldn’t get to surprise him by arriving at his table unannounced. But contacting him from an adjoining room would still prove her willingness to take risks, right?

  “Thank you for the suggestion,” she said, and stepped to the side to let a couple exit the restaurant.

  As the host regarded her through narrowed eyes, she found her list of contacts. And after a deep, fortifying breath, she tapped Miles’s name, hoping he had his cell on and with him.

  No one answered her call.

  Oh, no. Oh, no no no. Had he turned his phone off while he ate? Or changed his cell number entirely? Oh, heavens, had he rejected her call?

  The host held the door open for her. “Good afternoon.”

  Her shoulders slumped in defeat. Swallowing her disappointment, she turned to leave.

  Then her phone rang. Both she and the host jumped, and his eyes widened when he saw the name on the display screen.

  She tapped the screen to accept the call.

  “Hi, Miles,” she said, relishing each syllable. Not because the man by her side had snapped to attention, regarding her with a newly ingratiating smile, but because she was going to speak to the man she loved. And see him too, hopefully within seconds.

  If he still wanted her. Please, let him still want her.

  “Mary?” His voice, so beloved, was sharp. Almost frantic. “Are you okay?”

  Of course. Of course he was concerned. Given the finality with which she’d said good-bye, he probably figured she’d only call in an emergency.

  She rushed to reassure him. “I’m
absolutely fine. Please don’t worry.”

  His slow exhalation whispered in her ear. “I’m so sorry I didn’t pick up right away. I didn’t realize my phone was vibrating until you’d gone to voice mail.”

  “Not a problem.” She licked her lips and closed her eyes, wishing. Hoping. Gambling. “Listen, could you come to the front of the restaurant?”

  A few seconds of silence followed. She opened her tired eyes and noticed one of the other diners glaring at her. She didn’t blame him. Usually she wouldn’t dream of talking on the phone in a restaurant, but right now, good manners were the least of her concerns.

  “How did you know I was in a restaurant? Or which restaurant I was in? And why do I need to come to the front? Did you deliver something?”

  Poor lamb. He was clearly confused. “I’ll explain later. Just trust me.”

  “I do, Mary.” Sadness freighted his voice, lowering it to a near-murmur.

  The back of a man’s head appeared over the top of a booth. Thick brown hair, streaked with gold and russet. A little unkempt, just the way she liked it.

  He turned around and saw her. His jaw literally dropped.

  She waved and spoke into the phone, in lieu of shouting across the restaurant. “Hi, honey. I’m home.” Then she winced. “Sorry. That was a cliché. I can do better.”

  “Nothing and no one is better than you, Mary Louise Higgs,” he said.

  Then the call was disconnected, and he was rushing toward her. Before she could say another word, Miles had his hand on her bottom, boosting her high, until her arms clasped his neck and her legs wrapped around his waist.

  His mouth was on hers, and she could see flashes of light even with her eyes closed. Those elegant, irritated diners were whipping out their cell phones to get a good shot of the action. And honestly, she didn’t care. She might in the future. But right now, having the man she adored back in her arms was worth every bit of the notoriety she’d just earned.

  “I can’t believe you’re here.” He was breathing hard, and a rapid pulse thrummed at the base of his neck. “Does this mean—”