Susan, I want you to promise me something. When this is over, I want you to find someone really special. Someone who loves you, who shares your passions, your zest for life. You deserve every possible moment of happiness, and a life with someone who loves and appreciates you as I have...and will forever.”
Love always,
Graham
* * *
Graham wants me to find someone special?
Did he have Sam in mind?
What did those two really talk about during all those visits on the porch? Could they have conspired to plan my life without telling me? They wouldn’t dare! And Sam certainly hadn’t shown much interest in me—until the past few days.
No, it wasn’t possible.
My thoughts were interrupted by the ringing of the phone.
I reached across the desk to pick it up.
“Who do you hear from more often than me?” Sam asked.
“Is this going to become a habit?” I asked. Yet I felt pleased that he’d called. I have to confess that despite our rocky start, Sam was good company, and I was beginning to enjoy our conversations.
“Is that an invitation?”
“Let me get back to you on that,” I teased.
“The main reason I called was to tell you that Monica and John Corey over on Leighton Avenue had a break-in last night. I hope you’re locking your doors.”
“I only lock the doors at night or when I'm away from the house.”
“Well, for your own safety, I'd lock them during the day as well. Kate’s already convened a meeting of the local community watch group.”
“Kate didn’t mention that when I talked to her.”
“Probably because she didn’t want to worry you. But maybe you and I should consider putting a dusk-to-dawn light at the back of our properties. With the ravine behind us, and all the trees that could hide an intruder, it might be safer.”
Sam was looking out for me...again. Sam Bannister was slipping into my life, becoming my friend. It was kind and sweet, and all of it a bit unsettling. Yet, I could easily get to like his attention, his caring. “A light at the back of our properties would make sense.”
“I'll see what I can do about getting an estimate. How was your visit with Graham?” he asked.
“Perfect.” There was an awkward silence.
“I'm going to Amy’s later,” I told him.
“I have a confession to make,” he said abruptly. “I saw you dancing in the living room the other day, a and I've seen you dancing there before.”
“Are you spying on me?” I responded sharply.
“No! Never. I mean, I do keep an eye on things, but not the way you’re implying.”
“Did Graham ask you to?”
“Not...in so many words.” I could hear the hesitation in his voice. “Is this a good time to ask for your help?”
“Go ahead.” I was trying to trying to imagine what I could do for him, other than getting Phillip’s assessment organized.
He took an audible breath. “As part of my campaign to get a social life, I’ve been trying to learn ballroom dancing. Believe me, it’s not easy for someone with my lack of coordination.”
“And?” I prompted, intrigued by the mental picture of this man trying to dance.
“I was wondering if you might be interested in taking lessons with me,” he said in a rush. “I’d have a much easier time with someone I know, someone who’d understand when I stepped on her feet.”
I couldn’t help smiling at the image of the two of us stumbling around a dance floor. I might be light on my feet, but hardly light enough to escape the damage Sam’s big feet would inflict. “Why me?”
“Because you can dance and I know how much you enjoy it. And I believe your skills could come in handy for me. Besides, we could both benefit from a little nightlife.”
I would never have imagined Sam Bannister being interested in dancing. But he seemed set on surprising me at every turn these days.
But if I went to dance class with him, would he get the wrong idea? I didn’t want anything more than friendship—and maybe the occasional night out—but surely he was aware of that by now.
Besides, would it hurt if I went out and did something I love?
And, after all, my family wanted me to get a life.
“You’re on,” I said.
“Super! Now that I’m on a roll, I might as well ask you something else.”
“What’s that?”
“I was wondering if you’d come to dinner some night soon? I’ll make a roast of lamb—Graham always said how much you like lamb. Would you consider letting me cook for you?”
This is getting too cozy. Too fast. “I’m not sure. With the new baby—”
“You don’t have to give me your answer now. I’m ready to cook whenever you’re ready to eat.”
I hung up, thinking how clever of Sam to make dinner an open invitation. If I didn’t know the man better, I’d guess he was trying to date me. He’d certainly developed a penchant for popping into my day, playing Mr. Fix-it, and generally making himself indispensable.
And now he was leaving it to me to make a dinner date with him. The old fox…
Chapter Six
The old screened-in-porch gave me a clear view of my flower gardens, where I’d worked for a while earlier this morning, trying to fix my panic planting of yesterday. I'd half expected Sam to appear and ask what I was doing. I didn’t want to see him this morning as I didn’t feel comfortable around him right now.
Until recently, my feelings where Sam was concerned related only to his connection with Graham. Yet, after yesterday, and the way he looked at me when we were alone, things between us had changed. I could feel a shift in how he behaved toward me—and therefore, how I behaved toward him.
There was something so private about that moment when he looked at me across Graham’s baby carrier, the way his eyes seemed to take me in as if I were included in some secret world of his.
Yesterday, I felt a warm connection to Sam, and I appreciated that he wanted to include me in his dance plans. Sam’s presence in my life was a newfound pleasure, but dancing? Being held by him while the music played...and what if he wanted to kiss me? It had been so long since any man had held or kissed me... Bitter tears welled up in my eyes. I blinked them back. I couldn’t give in to the might-have-been scenarios that had plagued me all these months.
That’s not to say I was going to act on his invitation for dinner anytime soon. There was simply no way I could ever see myself making a date with Sam or any man.
When I talked to Amy last evening, she still hadn’t mentioned Sam’s being at the house yesterday. I didn’t tell Kate during our evening call last night, either. I should have, but Kate wouldn’t have settled for anything less than all the details, which would’ve included sharing how I felt about Sam. And if I didn’t know how I felt about him, how could I tell Kate?
Oh, how glad I was to have another letter read...
Dearest Susan,
I woke up this morning to the sound of early March winds. You were sleeping so soundly I couldn’t risk waking you, so I got up as quietly as I could. I was on my way downstairs when I felt the need to go into the room we'd done up years ago as a nursery for the twins. The pale morning sun made the room glow, something I don't remember noticing before.
This spring feels colder than last year but it’s probably me. I’m cold all the time.
The room’s changed a number of times over the years, yet as I glance around I remember the yellow paint you and I put on the walls; and the Dr. Seuss characters we pasted above the wainscoting.
I'll never forget the look on your face when Dr. Reeves said he could hear two heartbeats. The drive home from the appointment that day was a once-in-a-lifetime ride. We were both in shock. How would we cope with two babies? Where would we get the money to buy all the baby things we needed—two of everything?
In the backseat, six-year-old Jonathan talked about babies and how he didn’t want too man
y of them. He had a friend in school with twin brothers, and that wasn't a good plan in Jonathan's opinion.
Didn't we laugh as we listened to him considering the possible disadvantages of being the older brother of twins?
I recall thinking that twins should be very much alike, but Connor and Amy were complete opposites in every way. Connor was always the child who would strike out with a boldness that had us holding our breath, while Amy sat back and studied the situation.
How could I forget the Saturday morning you hurried into the bedroom and told me to get out of bed and come see what the twins were doing. Somehow, they’d managed to pull their cribs close together and they were throwing stuffed animals back and forth.
In those first years of raising the twins, I recall that you and I stopped talking at night. For years after I joined the firm, I'd wake up, feeling lonely and stressed by whatever was going on the next day. And, of course, I’d fidget until you woke up, too. You’d turn on the light and lie back in my arms. Your body always fit so easily against mine. I'd talk and you’d listen as we snuggled there. Soon, I’d begin to relax. Sometimes our middle-of-the-night talks led to lovemaking; other times we slipped off to sleep. Either way, it was the best part of my day.
And yet somewhere during those years after the twins were born, our nightly chats dwindled. I'd get home later, usually after the children were in bed, exhausted after a busy day. I’d be so tired I'd go to bed and sleep straight through the night, waking the next morning and heading back to the office for another long day.
If I had to do it over again, I would never have put those intimate late-night chats in jeopardy. Even more, I regret spending so many hours in the office. You deserved more of me...better, from me.
As I write these words, I can hear you outside my office door, I recognize that nervous pacing of yours. You woke up and found me gone from our bed, and went looking for me. Now you’re anxious to know if I’m okay, if I’ve had anything to eat this morning and if I’m ready to go to the Oncology Clinic. Once you're reassured that I’m fine you'll scold a little about how I shouldn’t have gotten up alone, how I should've awakened you.
I love the sense of security it gives me to face the day with you at my side.
I'll stop writing for now. Maybe we'll have lunch out, or go to the bookstore, all the simple pleasures that keep me connected to the real world. Our world.
Love always,
Graham
* * *
The hour we spent over coffee that day in the bookstore, his hand holding mine, the way he fussed over me, made me feel treasured. He should’ve been worried about his health, not mine, but somehow this act of unselfishness reassured me that I could relax a little.
As for those late-night chats years ago, I cherished the nights when we’d lie awake in each other’s arms. I was so disappointed when Graham began coming home too late and too tired for us to share how we were feeling. His preoccupation with work created a barrier I couldn’t cross. Caring for twin babies and Jonathan left me too exhausted to question what was going on between us. Each buried in our own responsibilities, we went for days without really talking. When those nights disappeared from our lives, I didn’t have the courage to ask why—at least not in the beginning.
Graham was a trial lawyer, and I was expected to provide a certain amount of opportunity for his clients and colleagues to socialize at our house. I couldn’t make small talk to save my soul. Still can’t, but it was worse back then. How many times I wanted to just run away from it all...
Many of the wives in Graham’s circle of professional friends were career women, and so many of them seemed to have an endless supply of witty things to say. The parties I had to host were nothing short of stressful.
There was one night in particular...
* * *
Graham smiles encouragingly from the other end of the table.
I've worked for two days—buying the perfect pork loin roast, the Waldorf salad ingredients, the right wine and an endless list of chores—for the sole purpose of proving that I could host a good dinner party in keeping with my husband’s elevated status as senior partner.
By the time I've completed my long list, I'm too tired to make soup, the requisite first course, so I go and buy asparagus soup from the local market.
Graham seems completely at ease with these people, and I suppose he should be. He works with them every day. I glance at Michael Thompson, one of Graham’s partners, and the one person who epitomizes everything I don’t like in lawyers—he’s an arrogant, opinionated schmoozer...
I wish I could snap my fingers and turn him into a toad, but it’s Michael’s turn to be invited to dinner, and I have to be nice if it kills me. I grit my teeth. I'd rather have a rattlesnake at my table. But knowing that I'm doing something for my husband’s career is my reason for maintaining a pleasant expression when Michael asks me, yet again, what I do with my time.
I want to say I work in a brothel and see him give his little cough, adjust his tie and glance down the table at Graham, his eyebrows ever so slightly raised.
But I'm so afraid that I'll embarrass Graham, I answer as politely as possible. “I'm busy with the twins. The school library needs volunteers, that sort of thing,” I offer as I paste yet another smile on my face.
But being who I am—the overeager wife of a very successful lawyer—I look around the table at these people who seem so perfect, and wish I could disappear. Don’t know where I want to be, just any place other than here at my table.
I fantasize about Paris, but so far, the longest trip I've taken is to Charleston, South Carolina, to visit a university classmate.
I excuse myself and go to the kitchen to make coffee to have with the dessert I spent four hours preparing this morning: A soufflé that has to be handled very carefully or it'll be a pile of mush by the time I get it to the table.
Giving the kitchen counter loaded with a collection of crystal port glasses and china dessert plates a quick glance, I return to the dining room to hear Michael going on at length about a new associate in the firm. Someone named Jennifer Sargent, who is the daughter of one of the judges, and a cellist.
Michael’s behaving as if this Jennifer person is his wife—or his lover. The look on his actual wife’s face as she sits and listens to him heap praise on another woman makes me feel sorry for her.
“Graham, you're doing a great job of bringing Jennifer along as a trial lawyer,” Michael goes on.
I see my husband’s quick glance in my direction. “Yes, Jennifer’s doing really well. She seems to have a gut instinct for the whole trial business, which makes my job easier.”
“She’s easy on the eyes, too,” Michael spreads his wolfish grin around the table.
I slide into my chair and stare down at my plate. I want to say something nasty but know that I never will, despite the bragging tone of serial philanderer Michael Thompson’s comments.
As I scan the table, I can see by the expression on the other women’s faces that we all share the same opinion of the man. The conversation drifts off into politics, and I leave the table to concentrate on putting the soufflé in the oven, relieved to be able to escape.
How could I remember that night with such clarity? Clutching the letter, I feel the old rush of resentment. “Graham, how did you manage to spend your working hours with Michael? What an idiot! I’d still like to strangle him.”
“Mom, are you okay?”
My heart jumped and I turned quickly, dropping the letter on the floor. “Amy! I didn’t hear you come in.”
Amy placed the baby carrier on the floor and knelt to pick up the letter. “Is this one of Dad’s letters?” she asked, a tone of near-reverence in her voice.
“Yeah, I was remembering a dinner party I gave years ago.”
“Was it a good memory?” she asked, holding the letter gingerly in her hands.
“In a way,” I said, acutely aware that I didn’t want Amy to read what her father had written. Reading G
raham’s letters offered me a wonderful opportunity to connect with him, learn his thoughts, feel his love. I never expected to have this chance to revisit our life together and I treasured every word. I couldn’t share my husband’s memories...at least not yet.
“I have so many memories... Dad and me going fishing. How he would bait my hook. One day in grade eleven, I skipped school and went downtown to hang out at the local arcade. Dad was driving back to the office when he spotted me. I was so afraid he’d tell you."
“He didn’t.”
“Yeah, and I was so grateful. Dad actually played a game of pinball with me before he drove me to school.” She sighed and handed the letter back to me.
I saw the worry lines around her eyes, the way she chewed her lip, a sign she was struggling to remain calm. “You miss your father so much, don’t you?” I asked.
“Yes,” she sobbed, wrapping her arms around my shoulders as we hugged each other. Wanting to console her, I hugged her tight, feeling my blouse dampen with her tears.
It was the gentle mewling of her son that brought her out of her misery. I watched as she left my arms and knelt beside the baby carrier, the endearing words she uttered to comfort her son as she lifted him from his tiny world were the most beautiful sounds in the universe.
She glanced at me around Graham's little body, her gaze tentative. She kissed his head as her eyes locked with mine. I smiled and reached my hand out to hers. “Love you,” I whispered.
* * *
Amy's surprise visit lasted about an hour. We had iced tea on the porch while she nursed Graham. After she left, I was contemplating how pleasant my day had been so far when the phone rang. I checked to see who it was—a very familiar number. “Connor, why are you calling this time of day? Are you at work or did they fire you?”
“Wish I could fire myself. Too damned busy here in chilly Denver.”
I looked out the window at the bright sunlight and chuckled to myself. “My sympathies. What’s going on in your life? Or are you calling simply to charm your mother?”
Remembering You Page 6
