Others continue to draw near to applaud me, and though I should be happy to receive their praise, it all causes a knot in my stomach. I haven’t begun the research, haven’t even put together an outline. I’ve been too consumed by an odd journal penned by a man I don’t know.
As the crowd thins, the professor and his wife offer me a ride home. I politely accept, deciding to hold my rebuke until the next day at work.
The professor congratulates himself again as he pulls up in front of my house. “You were the hit of the evening, Katie . . . the hit of the evening. I’m so glad I trusted my instincts.”
I mumble my thanks, though I am not sure for what, and then I get out of the car. Before I can close the car door, he says, “And one more thing . . .”
“Yes?”
He speaks the words quickly, laughs, and speeds off, causing the open door to slam shut on its own. It takes a minute for his remark to register, and when it does, I can only swing my purse in the direction of his car. But his words also make me smile as I unlock my door and step inside.
“Katie, you look beautiful without mascara.”
Dave slipped out of the office just before three. This time no one questioned his absence. He found Redd at the Lakeshore BikeHouse showroom, standing in front of a stainless-steel table strewn with parts.
“Dave, what’s up? How are the suits treating you?”
“Very well. I gave Shaun Safford your line about freedom—he went nuts.”
“It’s ’cause it’s true, man. Like I told you, they should hire me.”
“That’s why I’m here. I’d like to.”
Redd’s mustache curled along with his confused lips. “Say what?” His eyes grew wider when Dave took out his wallet and started counting bills.
“Whoa, wait a second. I was joking. I ain’t taking your money.” Redd motioned him close, lowered his voice. “I’ll tell you all you want to know—no charge.”
Dave nodded his acceptance. “Fair enough. I’ll take you up on that offer. You tell me everything that I need to know about BikeHouse and their customized motorcycles—no charge.”
Still, he continued to lay bills on the table next to the pieces of a carburetor.
Redd stared in confusion. “I told you, no charge.”
Dave nodded. “Then we’re in agreement. But this money isn’t for your knowledge about the machines.”
“What’s it for, then?” Redd questioned.
“I landed the account because of you. Now I truly need to learn everything possible about the company, the people, the product.”
“So?”
“So, before Shaun Safford asks again and I’m forced to either lie or embarrass myself, I need you to teach me how to ride a Harley.”
chapter nineteen
First thing Monday, I stretch on my running clothes and take my biweekly jog through the streets of the city. I end, as always, at my father’s favorite deli, several blocks east of the house, to sip my morning herbal tea and cool down—a choice my father could never understand. I’d tell him that herbal tea is an acquired taste; he’d answer that “acquired” means it tastes nasty. Although I love coming to this deli to reminisce, I never know if I’ll leave with a chuckle or a tear. It turns out that a woman’s feelings are a lot like herbal tea—hard to explain.
I am so caught up in my thoughts that, at first glance, I don’t notice the man who has stepped into the line to order. He is wearing a suit and a tie and reading an order scribbled on a yellow sticky note. His hair is trimmed, his shoes are shined, and he flirts with the girl behind the counter.
I wear no makeup, I am dripping in sweat, my T-shirt smells, and I feel bloated in these tight shorts. As he walks past, I shield my face with my hand and lower my eyes. He pays no mind—doesn’t notice me at all.
Artfully balancing several cups of coffee, he opens the door and treks across the street. I watch from the window and consider following him to discover where he works. It soon becomes apparent there is no need. He approaches the entrance to a large, glass-covered office building nearby, waits as a suit-clad woman politely opens the door, and then follows her inside.
I’ve been so caught up in the life of Patrick O’Riley lately—so enthralled by his romance with Anna and so intrigued by the mystery of the journal—that for many days I’ve forgotten there is misery still hiding in my heart.
It is best that I didn’t force an encounter with the man who ordered the coffee . . . not because of how I look today, but because of how I may react when we eventually speak. You see, that man—the one who came into my father’s favorite deli, who is apparently working at an office a mere handful of blocks away from where I live—is Eric Aldridge.
Betrayal is a damning sin. Not only does hatred often spawn in the heart of the one betrayed, but guilt begins to grow like mold as well. I’ve learned that it was easy, when the offense first occurred, to douse the offending party with blame. I’ve also discovered since that some of that blame, in the form of guilt, can slosh out to dampen the one holding the bucket.
It’s an emotion I have yet to fully understand. If it was Eric who made the decision to cheat with another woman in our apartment, why do I always find myself looking inward for answers?
I don’t shed tears on my walk home—I’ve shed too many over Eric. And yet at the same time, I feel my wound begin to pull open again and bleed. This time, however, something inside is different. I can’t say what compels me, what suddenly drives me forward, but as I arrive home and sit down to work on my report, I resolve to find closure.
I decide to talk once more with Eric.
If Redd was going to get paid to teach Dave how to ride, he’d vowed to do it right. They would start in the classroom. The anxious teacher had set up two chairs in the back warehouse against a spotless stainless-steel table that only days before had been strewn with parts.
It was time to begin.
Using his own bike as the main prop, Redd taught Dave in two and a half hours more than he could have learned in two and a half months on his own. The man explained the design, the disc brakes, the V-twin, air-cooled engine. He showed Dave how the fuel mix is precisely injected to maximize the thrust.
He taught him the history, how in 1894, Hildebrand & Wolfmüller became the first production motorized bikes in the world to be called motorcycles. He described how others followed: George Hendee with the Indian in 1901, Bill Harley and the Davidson brothers with the first Harley-Davidson in 1903.
He expounded on the notion that while production bikes were fine for the average schmo, in truth, nobody wants to be average. He preached that no two riders have the same tastes, and so every serious bike rider should have a customized machine to match those tastes.
He moved on to talk about the accessories, the maintenance, the nostalgia, the image. And after all was said and done, he even taught Dave how to properly inflate the tires.
Dave sucked in every word. He made observations, asked questions, pondered, and listened. He put to memory all he could and wrote notes for everything else.
Indeed, the bikes were sleek and overwhelming. However, after a little education, once you were formally introduced, once you shook their hands and looked them in the eyes, it was easy to see past their shapely exterior—there was power in those pistons.
On his first visit to the showroom, Dave had been intimidated. Now, after an evening of instruction and illumination, the bikes were approachable, even congenial. While they may have started out as cheerleaders, beauty queens, and supermodels, they were quickly becoming the girl next door—more Mary Ann than Ginger. As Redd watched Dave’s perception shift, he knew it was time for the man and the bike to hold hands.
“That’s all I have, Dave. If there are no more questions, it’s time.”
“We’re done for the day?”
“Not at all. It’s time to take a ride.�
�
• • •
Of the three BikeHouse focus groups slated for phase one of the study, the first was scheduled to begin at eight a.m. at the Marriott hotel near Brock’s apartment. Staff in other cities would be conducting similar clinics simultaneously. Dave, Brock, and half a dozen Strategy Data employees arrived to set up a few minutes before seven. Dave was directing the show.
It was the usual drill, one he’d orchestrated countless times; today would be no different. At a few minutes before the hour, the first survey participants began to filter in to the grand ballroom. Before letting a soul even think about picking up a pencil, they fed them all a hot and hearty breakfast. It was the first rule of market surveys—keep the people happy, keep them involved. If they get hungry, angry, tired, or irritable, especially before the questioning phase begins, then emotions can take over, causing what the researcher fears most—skewed data.
As people finished eating, Brock and Dave used a computer to divide them into separate survey groups, an exercise they hoped would create a cross-section of America—a tidy slice of the world that would expose opinions, habits, prejudices, perceptions, likes, and dislikes. The game was to figure out, through a series of questions, observations, and algorithms, just what made people tick. More important, the job of Strategy Data International was to divine the data, sift through the answers, and analyze every response—collectively and individually—to discover, through it all, who was most likely to purchase a BikeHouse customized motorcycle and why.
After all the people were surveyed and all the questions had been answered, resulting data was tallied into a laptop and then transferred to the office, where more in-depth analysis could begin. It had gone smoothly—just like old times when Dave and Brock had worked together on the same account. Now, with the last of the equipment loaded, Brock jumped into Dave’s car, and they headed to the office.
The conversation was light—golf, women, the survey, and, in particular, Brock’s concerns with Jeanine. It was amusing conversation, normal conversation, and Brock couldn’t help but notice the improvement, especially as Dave chuckled over the radio announcer’s sports jokes.
Others at the office had also mentioned Dave’s demeanor, his dramatic turnaround since the doctor visits—and since the BikeHouse account had materialized. Ellen had especially taken note.
Dave’s mood today certainly confirmed his place on the road to recovery. He seemed so sure-footed and back to normal that Brock was caught off guard by Dave’s final question as they approached the office parking structure. It was asked with a laugh, but seeping with serious undertones.
“Do you ever get the urge to keep on going?”
“Say what?”
“When you drive to work: do you ever want to pass up the parking lot and—you know—just keep on driving?”
“To where?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think that’s the point. I just wonder if it wouldn’t be an adventure to keep on going to wherever the road leads.”
Brock, at first puzzled, turned agreeable. “Yeah, good idea, let’s do it right now. We could go across the country—soup kitchen to soup kitchen—begging money for gas. It would be fun.”
“I’m serious.”
“I know, I can see that. That’s why you’re scaring me.” Brock tried to read his friend’s eyes. “Look, buddy, you’ve got a decent six-figure income and stock options that will make you a millionaire. Be patient. Make your fortune first, then buy your Winnebago.”
Dave shrugged lightly. “You’re probably right.”
“Besides, you can’t just take off,” Brock added.
“Why not?”
“I have Mets tickets again next week. If you don’t go, then I’ll have to take Jeanine from accounting, and she’s smothering me.”
When Dave laughed aloud, it was such an instant and complete change in demeanor that it was Brock’s turn to stare and wonder.
“What?” Dave questioned.
Brock reached over and slapped him on the shoulder. “I won’t be able to let you drive alone to work anymore, will I?”
Dave shrugged, signaled, braked, and then turned methodically into the company parking garage.
chapter twenty
In a vain attempt to harness my swirling thoughts and emotions, I pull half a dozen books from the shelf and haul them to the kitchen table. I have to at least start on the Society’s report, and I decide that if I stay away from the den, where I’ve placed the journal, the temptation won’t be so overwhelming. I’m also trying to avoid the windows. If I can’t see the city, perhaps I’ll forget about Eric.
But I wonder, with so many unanswered questions in my life, with no certainty of closure, will I be able to focus enough to create a compelling report for others?
I scan through several volumes for nearly an hour and then methodically rework my outline, tossing attempt after attempt into the garbage. I am ready to try again when I get a call from Tom at the bridge with an address and phone number for Ben Bryant in Palm Springs.
For the next thirty minutes I hold a staring contest with myself, my books, and Bryant’s address. I blink, and the address wins.
My phone call to the professor is short. When I tell him that I need two days off to visit a friend in Palm Springs, he’s hesitant. When I add that the friend is a man, he wishes me well.
I tell myself that I’ll be quick. I’ll find out what I can about the journal, return straight home the following day, and finish my first draft by the weekend. Then, on Monday, after I turn it in to a waiting and anxious boss, I’ll gather my courage and confront Eric.
• • •
Traffic swinging past L.A. is worse than I anticipate. By the time I arrive in Palm Springs and check into my hotel, it is nine-thirty at night. I question whether it’s too late to visit Mr. Bryant, but decide to drive by and see if a light is on.
The sheer number of new developments is shocking, but I soon locate the Dumuth Park neighborhood where Mr. Bryant lives—cookie-cutter, but clean and well kept. I find his house number on the mailbox and am relieved to see through the windows that the lights are on inside.
I don’t know if he’ll remember me, so I have brought a picture of my father. I push the doorbell, wait, and then hear shuffling. When the door opens, I am greeted by the confused stare of an old man—late eighties, bald head, with weathered, shriveled skin. At first I am not sure it is Mr. Bryant. His features are even more sullen and brooding than I expect.
“Yeah?” His voice is coarse.
“Mr. Bryant?”
“What?”
“Mr. Bryant, I don’t know if you remember me. I’m the daughter of Kade Connelly.” I hold out the picture of my father, and with unexpected swiftness he reaches out and snatches it from my hand. He pushes up his glasses and then lowers his head to study the huge frame of a man standing in my photo on the edge of the bridge. Ben’s eyes soften as his focus seems to drift. I give him time, waiting to see if I can detect any recognition. I see none.
“Do you remember him?” I question, hoping for anything as he hands the photo back.
“Your father was a man’s man, Katie,” he answers, his voice still gravelly but more kind.
“You remember me?”
“Remember you? Hell, I remember that as a baby you used to spit up all over me. Does that count?”
He’s a craggy, rough-hewn man, but I remind myself that with men on the bridge, their façade is often misleading. He invites me in, offers me some coffee, and we sit on his couch to visit.
“I hope I’m not keeping you up,” I say.
“Don’t sleep much lately. Not since Frances died.”
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay. It will happen to the best of us.”
“Yes, I know that firsthand.” I don’t mean to sound pitiful in my answer. I am just trying to ma
ke conversation, but immediately I regret my words.
He leans forward, understanding that I refer to my father. “I’m sorry I didn’t make it to your dad’s funeral. I lost Frances a few weeks before—they wouldn’t let me drive anymore, and . . .”
“It’s okay. I understand.”
We sit without speaking until the silence becomes uncomfortable and I decide that I should get to the reason for my visit. “Mr. Bryant . . .”
“Please, call me Ben.”
“Ben, I’m here to ask you about a book that I found in my father’s things. It’s a journal written by a man named Patrick O’Riley.”
“Patrick O’Riley.” He repeats the name as if he’s heard it before.
“So you know about it?” I ask.
He seems hesitant. “Officially? No. Don’t know a thing about it. You aren’t a reporter, are you?”
I smirk at the thought. “I’m too shy for that. I found the journal in Dad’s desk. Judging from his notes, he seemed anxious to find its owner. I need to know more about it.”
Ben takes another long stare, probably trying to decide if I am harmless.
“What am I worried about?” he finally says. “They can’t fire me, and I doubt they can take away my pension. Just in case, though, you didn’t hear it from me.”
“I understand.”
“We found it,” he replies matter-of-factly.
“Found it? What do you mean? Where? How? When?” As my questions rattle out, it dawns on me that I sound exactly like a reporter. I stop and try again. “Why don’t you start at the beginning and tell me all about it.”
“Can I get you some more coffee?” he asks, in no apparent hurry.
“No, thank you. I’m fine.”
“So, you want to hear about the journal?”
He pats my knee as if I were still a little girl—and perhaps, to an old man, I am.
“I was working with your father that day under the trellis, replacing some of the older rivets with new, high-strength bolts. It was your father who spotted the metal box tacked to the inside of the beam. I don’t know how he noticed it, the way it was hidden, but he did. It was built to look like a beam extension and then tacked on at the corners. We broke the spot welds and pulled it off, not really understanding what we’d found. He presumed it had been placed there by the original crew to cover a poor seam. It wasn’t until we ground off the corners and it popped open that we realized what we had. Best way to describe it is a homemade time capsule. Some of the original bridge crews were known to do things like that.”
The Other Side of the Bridge Page 11
