Love, Albert

by Simmons, Lynda

  Neither spoke as she rolled away, tugging at her clothes and pushing at her hair, her eyes on the grass, the trees, anywhere but him.

  “Vicky,” he said, but she silenced him with shake of her head.

  “Let’s get out of here,” she whispered, and got to her feet.

  SIXTEEN

  “You should have seen that daughter of yours with the karaoke machine.” Vicky’s mother sighed into the phone. “Such grace, such presence, slipping from one song straight into another. And the dancing? I swear that child will be a star someday.”

  Vicky smiled, picturing it as she sat down at the vanity with the cell phone. Show tunes no doubt, with “Tomorrow” as the big finish, complete with choreography learned from too many days spent indoors these last few months, watching endless television and movies. But all that would change now. Fresh air, sunshine, and a home of their own were only days away.

  “The audience loved her performance, of course,” Vicky said, squeezing the cell between her ear and shoulder as she flipped open her laptop.

  “Every minute.”

  Vicky laughed and turned on her computer. “And just how many tickets did you have to buy to guarantee all this limelight?”

  “I forget,” Jane said, changing the subject with a sniff. “Did you have a good weekend?”

  “We accomplished what we came for,” Vicky said as the screen came to life. “I’ll tell you more when I get home. Are the kids in bed?”

  “Just.” Her mother paused and Vicky could hear her walking into another room. “I know they’ll be glad to see you. They miss you.”

  “I miss them, too.” She checked on the rubber chicken and the whoopee cushion peeking out from the top of her duffle bag. “Tell them I’m bringing back some special presents.”

  The green dragon sat on the picnic basket beside the bag, but Vicky knew she couldn’t give it to Jason until she had something else for Kira, because the fish was not going home with her in the morning.

  She glanced over at the bowl and knew a moment of sadness as she watched her flick her tail and flirt with the diver. But Willy and George had agreed to keep her, and Vicky was sure the fish would rather stay where she was than suffer through a bumpy flight, or another ride in the mini.

  “All they want is for you to bring back their father,” Jane said. “Kira’s still counting on that wish.”

  “Mom, this trip was never about reconciliation,” Vicky said evenly and clicked over to e-mail. “And Reid will not be with me.”

  She hit new mail, watched three envelopes pop up—one from the agent for the house in Milton, one from her broker, and one from Rita—and waited for the inevitable arguments from her mother.

  But Jane only sighed. “I’ll let Kira know,” she said, her voice softer than Vicky had expected and more understanding than she’d imagined possible, making everything harder somehow.

  “Thanks,” Vicky said and thankfully her mother changed the subject. Launched into a story about a neighborhood cat that Jason had taken a fancy to while Vicky clicked on the message from Rita, desperately needing the voice of encouragement now. But there was only one line:

  No more nagging, I promise. I know you’ll do what’s best. Love, Rita.

  What’s best? She had to be kidding. Who knew what was best anymore?

  Vicky opened the message from the agent in Milton instead. He had set up an appointment for her to view the house the day after tomorrow at one o’clock. No other offers so far, and she shouldn’t worry about the roof. It was in fine shape, which was wonderful, perfect in fact. But Vicky was still going to climb up there and see for herself. Get used to being a homeowner. A single homeowner. Because the moon might still be riding high outside her window, but the madness and magic were over. And nothing had changed.

  She and Reid had ridden back from Seaport in silence, listening to Willy and George laughing and talking, going on and on about the ranger, the ditch, the bumper that gave before the rope. The two of them bridging the gap, closing the space that Albert had occupied for years, while she and Reid sat apart, the distance between them as wide now as it had been when they’d left San Francisco.

  Sex on the headland had been everything she’d expected—wet, hot, and something she’d needed more than she cared to admit. But even with his touch still fresh on her skin, his taste still clear in her mind, ultimately it wasn’t enough. And it was only through sheer force of will that she kept disappointment from swamping her, which made no sense at all.

  She’d know from the start that two days wouldn’t alter the beliefs of a lifetime. And if she’d been counting on the wish to make a difference, then more the fool her. Might as well consult with daisies for ultimate truths, or put wedding cake under your pillow to find true love. Yet, if she was honest, there had indeed been a small part of her that wanted to believe.

  She heard her mother sigh, the story of the cat over and nothing but silence left. “Shall we meet you at the airport?” she asked.

  “That would be great,” Vicky said, and hit reply, confirming the appointment with the agent in Milton. This is what’s best, she told herself and pressed send. The holiday was over and it was business as usual for a real estate agent. As Reid had said, she loved her work, and in her heart she wasn’t ready to give it up yet. So she’d find a way to be Mommy and agent, and more importantly, a way to be Vicky without Reid.

  She heard the double beep of another call waiting for her. “Mom,” she said. “I’ve got another call on the line. Give the kids a kiss for me and I’ll call you in the morning.”

  Her mother promised she would and Vicky pressed the link button. “Vicky Ferguson, here.” She sat up straighter. “Mr. Robinson? How are you?”

  Reid shook his head as he leafed through the bent and dog-eared pages of the separation agreement one more time. He’d read the document from beginning to end for the first time only a few minutes ago, and while he and Rita might not see eye-to-eye on most things, there was no denying she was a damn good lawyer. Reid’s would never have been so thorough, so detailed. But that’s what he got for picking someone out of the yellow pages.

  He set the agreement on the dresser and tried to smooth out some of the wrinkles. But it had spent so much time in the car, with Albert, and finally his suitcase, that there was no way to save it cosmetically. That didn’t make it any less legal, however, so he’d sign his name and call Lyle Newhouse when he got back to San Francisco. See if he’d be willing to handle the divorce, as well as the lady with the cats in Seattle.

  He grimaced and crossed to the phone on the nightstand. The divorce, at least, would be easy. The separation agreement laid everything out clearly and Reid wouldn’t be contesting a thing, because what mattered most right now was that Vicky be happy.

  He lifted the receiver, anxious to reach North Star tonight, to plead his case with Bob. Let him know his chief pilot was ready to take the retraining and the checkride, and assure him he was ready to fly again. Really ready this time, because he wasn’t fooling himself anymore. Vicky had been right all along. They could never go back to where they had been, and he’d been thinking only of himself when he’d asked her to try.

  She wanted a life he couldn’t imagine living. And it humbled him now to think of how many years she’d spent with her dream on hold, while he’d led them along his own path.

  He dialed the number, heard the beep of a line engaged and hung up again. Downstairs, Willy and George were talking, and next door, Vicky was on the computer.

  And wasn’t that supposed to be part of owning a home? To delight in a garden the way Vicky’s father did. Look forward to donning a tool belt the way Stan at Ribfest had. But even when he counted in the possible joy of power tools, Reid couldn’t see himself fitting Vicky’s mold.

  He sighed and dropped the suitcase on the bed, unzipping it as he thought of all the men who had remade themselves for women. Fred Hennessey, pretending he was driving a truck every time he got behind the wheel of his minivan. Zachar
y Kane, spouting pop-psychology and struggling to get in touch with his gentler side. And George Foley, knowing for years that his wife was waiting for Albert, but putting his pride on hold and staying anyway. And dropping his car in the ditch when necessary, because he loved her that much.

  Reid wandered over to the dresser and picked up the can of snakes, the water boutonniere, the hand buzzer—his half of Albert’s legacy. And the Groucho glasses, of course.

  He set everything else on the bed but put the glasses on and turned to study himself in the mirror. The fit was good, always had been. Even when he was young and Albert would let him try them on, they had felt right, comfortable. He could be anyone behind there. Maybe even himself.

  A knock at the door drew his head around, and he turned completely as Vicky burst into the room with the cell phone in her hand.

  “It’s dead,” she said, and held up the phone as though that was explanation enough. “My deal is dead.”

  “How? When?”

  “Just now,” Vicky said, and smiled in spite of herself. How could she not when he looked so ridiculous in those glasses?

  “I just talked to Mr. Robinson. And there was an e-mail from my broker.” Not the hearty congratulations she’d expected after all, but a terse note that still stung.

  “He called it gross negligence,” she said as she wandered closer. “But that’s a little harsh, don’t you think?”

  Reid threw up his hands. “I don’t know what to think until you tell me what happened.”

  Vicky sat down on the bed. “It was more of an oversight really. Too many balls in the air.”

  And a mind that had definitely been elsewhere.

  She held up the phone. “I forgot to tell Mr. Robinson not to change anything on the offer. To just sign it and send it back.”

  “He changed something?”

  “Just one word. In the mirror-tile clause, he scratched out remove and wrote cover. He agreed to cover the tiles.”

  “Sounds reasonable.”

  “Sure, but it changed the offer. Made it his sign back to the Claytons, instead of their sign back to him.”

  “A technicality,” Reid said.

  “And the out the Claytons needed.” She looked down at the phone in her lap. “According to my broker’s e-mail, they refused to initial the change and immediately had Mat Berger write up an offer on a home they had seen with him.”

  Reid sighed and sat down beside her. “Number one in San Francisco.”

  “You remember.”

  “It’s a dirty business.”

  “The dirtiest.”

  “But you still love it.”

  “I do.” She smiled at him. “And I won’t leave unless my broker fires me.”

  “How did Mr. Robinson take the news?”

  “In stride, I’d say. He was disappointed about the other house in Millbrae, but he’s optimistic I’ll find another buyer for his house in time.”

  “And you? Are you optimistic, too?”

  She laughed and got to her feet. “I’d have to sell it within a week in order to meet the conditions of the other two offers. And you have seen the inside of that house.”

  He nodded. “No commissions.”

  “And no house in Milton.” She turned and wandered to the window, still expecting a surge of frustration, of anger at the very least. But when she looked out at the yard and the moon riding over the trees, a sense of relief washed over her like soft rain because she wouldn’t have to go up on that roof alone after all.

  “Well,” Reid said, and straightened the Grouchos on his nose. “I have something that will make you happy.”

  She watched him cross to the dresser and pick up the Betty Grable pen. Her mouth dried when he bent over the pages. And her knees went rubbery as Betty’s dress fell away, and he signed his name on the line.

  “The separation agreement,” she said, surprised she had a voice at all.

  “The very thing to pick you back up again.” He folded the document and held it out to her. “I had it with me all along.”

  “I see,” she said softly, feeling the wrinkled paper beneath her fingers and that same disappointment pressing down on her, making it hard to think. Yet this was exactly what she wanted – an end to the past and the start of a new future.

  So she shot one last glance out the window at the moon, gripped the papers tightly and held out a hand. “Thank you, Reid. I wish you all the best.”

  He took her hand, felt the warmth of her fingers, the strength of her grip. She’d be fine, there was no question. Successful, happy. No question.

  And he’d be what?

  She drew back her hand, glanced down at the agreement, but she didn’t leave right away and Reid’s damned heart pounded faster.

  “I’ll see you, then,” she said

  “Yeah. I’ll call you.” He ran a hand over his mouth and realized it was shaking.

  She turned to go, then stopped and came back to him. “I want to see the real you,” she said softly, and slipped the Groucho glasses from his face. Then she smiled and pushed the hair back from his eyes. “You need a haircut, Ferguson.”

  He managed a smile. “I always do.”

  She lowered her hand and turned, dropping the glasses on the bed on her way to the door. She paused in the doorway, glanced back at him. “I do love you, Reid,” she said.

  “I love you, too,” he said, feeling ridiculous all of a sudden. Standing there watching her walk away when his heart was breaking and his mind was screaming at him to move, to stop her. But his feet seemed frozen, and his mouth could form no more words.

  Then the door was closing, as if in slow motion, and she was gone. He stood still, staring stupidly after her, as though the door might open again and she might suddenly appear. But she had what she wanted. Why would she come back? He was the only one left with nothing.

  He shook his head, wondering where that had come from. He had everything he needed too. A call to make to North Star, Groucho on the bed, and a separation agreement that guaranteed him plenty of time with his kids. He could see them whenever he wanted. Take them out to the park, the beach, the mountains. All the places he’d longed to show them, but had never dreamed he’d do it alone.

  He looked over at the bed, at Albert’s legacy, seeing it for what it was—the sad and sorry accumulations of a lifetime. Reid had tried hard to dismiss the words in the letter, had even thrown it out when he arrived back at the house. But the proof was there in front of him. Albert had died alone. Without family around him or the woman he loved, because he’d been too stubborn to change.

  Reid’s feet were moving of their own accord now, taking him across the room to the door. But it swung open in front of him, nearly knocking him back. And there she stood with the dog-eared separation agreement in her hand.

  “It was a mistake,” he blurted, and watched her nod.

  “I figured that,” she said, and opened it. “Your lawyer will have a fit when—”

  He snapped the pages from her hand. “No, I mean signing it. That was the mistake.” He drew her into the room, closed the door, and stood in front of her. The voices of Fred and Zack and even George ringing in his head, cheering him on, helping him through.

  “I don’t want a divorce,” he said. “I never did. I want you and the kids, not just for a weekend, but every day of my life. I want to grow old with you. I want us to rock on the porch together and watch the sunsets.”

  She shook her head, her eyes suddenly too bright. “We don’t have a porch.”

  He smiled. “Then we’ll have to get one.”

  She swiped at a tear that fell on her cheek. “But you don’t want one.”

  “I want you,” he said softly. “If you come with a house, then I want that, too.” He moved toward her. “I can see us there, Vick. For the first time, I can see us on a porch, or a swing, anything you want.” He wiped another tear from her cheek. “But the one thing I can’t see is me without you.”

  She moved closer, a smile
slowly coming to her lips, and he felt the weight lifting from his heart, setting him free.

  “Can we tear up the agreement?” he asked.

  “There’s no need,” she whispered. “The signatures.” She took the pages from him and opened them up. “They’re gone.”

  Reid stared at the line where he’d signed his name. “How did that –” He snapped his head up.

  “Albert’s pen,” they said together.

  “Invisible ink,” Reid said, his throat growing tight.

  “We’ll have to call Bob,” she said. “Tell him to stop being an ass and let you fly. And I’ve been thinking about that woman with the cats. Rita writes one heck of a nasty letter, if you’re interested.”

  He took the document back and tossed it over his shoulder. “I’m sure she’ll be delighted to hear from me.”

  Her smile dimmed. “She will be if you’re serious about a house.”

  “I am,” he said, “but not the place in Milton. That one of Robinson’s, however, sounds interesting. Portholes, balconies.” He pursed his lips. “No shutters though.”

  She lifted her arms, wrapped them around his neck. “I can live without them. But there’s a lot of grass.”

  “I’ll need a mower.” He thought carefully as he walked her backward. “One with a steering wheel.”

  “And mud flaps,” she added, laughing as he tumbled her back on the bed, buzzers and boutonnieres bouncing all around them.

  “You read my mind,” he said, bringing her closer, tucking her beside him.

  “So Kira was right,” she whispered and snuggled right in, fitting herself to him. “Wishes do come true.”

  “Looks like,” he said, slipping a hand beneath her T-shirt, loving the way she sighed and arched into his touch. “But now she’ll never give up on the horse.”

  She cupped his face in her hands. “Maybe if we get her a fish.”

  “Or try a little topiary.” He touched his lips to hers. “I was getting pretty good with a clipper.”

  She considered as she slowly unbuttoned his shirt. “Maybe when Jason is older. There’ll be enough to do around that house as it is.”