Okay, you’re floating, not swimming! Put your head under the water and get wet all over! First of all, I thought you and James were married. I didn’t realize that there was someone else! Can you talk about that? Also, what is your situation now??????????? I’m confused. I’ve been waiting for you to tell me all this.
Tim
He went to work as soon as he hit send. If Tara was married, he’d best get a grip on his heart. And the best anecdote to a man’s bleeding heart was diversion.
He didn’t see her response until much later that night.
Don’t get frustrated with me. I don’t do well with tension. I’m writing this from my phone. So it’s going to look and sound weird. And u have no idea how far for me my head is under water. I don’t generally talk about Tara in a private sense. U already know more than most of my closest friends. The deal is u ask I’ll try to answer. U get mad at me I stop.
I’ll have to explain my husband tomorrow when I can really type. For now can u just relax and be content that we’re talking at all?
Tim didn’t sleep much that night.
Thursday morning I held my breath as I opened my e-mail client. Would there be a note from Tim? Or had I pushed him away again?
I told myself either way it would be okay, but I knew it wouldn’t be okay. Either way. I couldn’t bear to lose Tim again.
And we’d never be a couple again, either.
I saw his name in my inbox and didn’t even pretend to notice other mail.
Sometimes I have to prime the pump a little to get any water, but you’re doing fine. You are finally starting to sound like someone I knew before.
Tim
I paced my office. And when the walls were too confining, I went outside to walk along the edge of the desert behind the house that had been my home for so many empty years.
I hadn’t seen or heard from Chris since Sunday night. At some point we had to make arrangements for me to get the rest of my things out of the house. To get my share of the furniture, though all I really wanted was my family heirlooms and my kitchen. The dishes and pots and pans and utensils were all my personal choices.
I’d paid my friend for a month’s rent. Hopefully the dissolusion paperwork would be done by then. I could pack a moving truck and head to Phoenix. And sometime between now and then, I had to call my mother and let her know what was going on.
And I had to make a decision about Tim. He wasn’t accepting Tara Taylor Quinn. He wanted Tara.
Could I give her to him?
And be strong enough to recover when he moved on?
My answer came in the form of another question: Can you live with yourself if you don’t at least try?
I sat down to write what was probably going to be the hardest letter of my life.
Tim slept to escape. He’d been headlong on a course to live a miracle and Tara apparently had a husband. Or used to. He hoped. He’d been pushing her to give him her intimate confessions, her innermost thoughts, and he’d been out of place doing so if she was married.
Was that why she was so newsy and standoffish? So distant? Because she’d only been connecting with an old friend while he’d been running off into the sunset with her?
Clearly she was it for Tim. He’d wasted years of two women’s lives. Hurt two women by his inability to love wholly and completely.
There was nothing new on his computer when he hauled his ass out of bed just after six the next morning. But then, there wouldn’t have been. It was only 4:00 AM her time.
Out in the shop most of the morning, he didn’t get to his e-mail at work right away, either. And that had been his choice. At least partially. They’d had a machine break down. But one of the technicians could probably have handled it.
By lunchtime, he couldn’t hold himself off any longer. As she’d promised, Tara had emailed him. He wasn’t sure he wanted to read what she’d sent.
He had to know.
Tim,
I didn’t sleep much last night. My husband’s name is Chris . . .
The office bustled around him, engineers talking, phones ringing, people walking by—all buffers to his imminent crash and burn. Tara gave him a very brief overview of a marriage that sounded as though it was empty at best, and Tim was jealous anyway.
I signed the divorce papers on Sunday. I haven’t seen or spoken with Chris since, and don’t expect to do so. I’m renting a suite of rooms from a friend.
I’m guessing you don’t realize it, but you’ve scored tremendously this week. I’m telling you because I want you to know you mattered. I rarely leave the protection of Tara Taylor Quinn. She’s how I’ve survived. Tara is in hiding a good bit of the time. I guess it sounds schizophrenic, but I’ve come to learn that it’s really quite normal. Especially when you have to be in the public eye.
Over the years, TTQ slowly overtook the majority of my persona. I know she can handle anything. She’s the one who told Chris, after ten years of marriage, that I could only be his friend, nothing more. I moved my things out of our room and into the second master suite twelve years ago.
You think I was deliberately withholding stuff, making you drag it out, and yet I was putting more out there than I ever do.I just don’t want you to think I was being disrespectful to you or demeaning you in any way. Whenever I write to anyone—with the exception of two or three people, my posts are signed TTQ. Always. That’s me. You got Tara right from the start.
She didn’t sign her name.
I didn’t pretend to work while I waited for his response. I dusted the bookshelves. Took a walk in the desert. Drove to the store for more diet cola.
And when Tim’s letter came, I accepted that I was in way over my head and, heart pounding in my chest, sat down to read.
Tara:
Just for the record I’m not trying to score points or keep score, but explain what the meaning of “you’ve scored tremendously.” I don’t scare easily, so be assured of that. You made my day, when you said “you mattered” and by letting me know I had your special signature. I’m sitting at my desk smiling. By the way, I want to give you some emotional homework for this weekend. Go and rent the movie The Notebook and watch it and tell me about it afterward. Talk to you tonight.
Tim
The sun was shining brighter again, like we’d weathered the storm. I wrote right back to him.
Tim,
I own the movie The Notebook. Just saw it again about a month ago. My feeling afterward . . . I screwed up. I’m never going to have that. Followed by, it’s just a movie. And then, damn that was good storytelling. And then, okay . . . I think that’s the most important thing on earth—to share a love that deep. And that made me sad. At which time I turned on Without a Trace. And then Mary Poppins.
Scored tremendously, didn’t mean as in keeping score, but scoring something, as in obtaining something.
It’s good to picture you smiling. You had the greatest smile. I think it’s only fair that since you’ve seen my website—and therefore a recent picture of me—you should send me one of you.
And something else I want you to know is that I’ve only, to this day, dated three guys more than once. One was Chris. One was James. And the third was you.
Tara,
Ok, here is a picture of me at the finish line of a marathon I ran in Oct. Be warned, I’m showing some leg!!!!!!!!!!!!
Tim,
You aren’t smiling. And I can’t see your eyes. But you still sweat as much as you used to! You’re in great shape!
Tara,
I’m not smiling because that is when I hurt my leg. . . . Send me a recent of yourself, but send to my home e-mail.
I don’t want my work monitor to catch on fire!
Tim was flirting with me. And I’d responded. I felt guilty, there was no doubt about that. In twenty-two years of marriage I hadn’t given Chris a single innuendo. I was leading Tim to think I could give him something I wasn’t capable of giving.
And the repartee felt damned good.
&nb
sp; We’d come twenty-seven years into the future, and yet we hadn’t traveled a step. He wanted me. I was bone-deep in love with him. And I wasn’t going to be able to sleep with him.
He’d mentioned fire. Like he knew I was sitting in it. Needing him there. And I knew better than to trust anyone to be there. Except me.
He’d asked me to call him.
I couldn’t.
But I wanted to talk to him. So badly. I wanted to hear his voice—to know if these past three days had any basis in reality at all.
I was in too deep. Already.
Truth was, I’d been in too deep from the very first post. I just couldn’t do casual, or confident and mature, with Tim Barney.
I knew his number. I could call him.
And I started to shake, just thinking about doing so.
Tim didn’t even have his coat off before he was at the computer in his home office on Thursday, signing on to see if Tara had sent him a picture. He was embarking on the rest of his life—finally starting his life—and all of the emotions of the eighteen-year-old who’d needed her so badly were comingling with the very mature needs and desires of a forty-seven-year-old man and burning him alive.
The extent to which he was losing it was evident by the sudden jerk of his heart when he saw her name in his inbox. He opened the attachment first—and was instantly hard. He couldn’t stop staring.
Tara was sitting at a slot machine. Her hair was a little longer, a bit more expensive looking, but those eyes were the same. So was the smile.
Eventually he made it to her words.
Tim,
This was taken in Las Vegas in September during an all-girl getaway. I’d just won a jackpot. And I was freezing in the casino, which explains the cape. TTQ is very TTQish. She wears tight jeans, tank tops, and lots of fur, black leather, and fringe. Unless she’s making public appearances; then it’s always suits. But always, even on days when she’s slumming, she wears gorgeous jewelry. Please note the purse that she got from an art gallery in New Orleans after coveting it for three days. She’s a bag lady on the side and this is one of her prized possessions. She usually only carries it when it matches her outfit, but this was an extreme circumstance.
Tara
He looked at the picture again, typed a quick message, and left the room. He had to do something, to stay busy. And remind himself that he was forty-seven, not eighteen. He was not going to embarrass himself.
Taking off his coat, he threw it over a chair and went into the kitchen to see about dinner. To feed at least one of his appetites.
I looked at the clock. He’d be home from work. Probably making dinner. I already knew his schedule. His habits. I should always have known them.
He was in my blood. In my soul. And I was a stranger to his life.
I picked up my phone. Looked at the keypad, visually punching out his number. I could hardly breathe just doing that much. I’d never be able to talk if I actually got up the guts to call.
“What are you afraid of?” I asked aloud, just to hear a voice outside my head.
I wish I had an answer to give me. I wasn’t afraid of Tim. I wasn’t afraid of the call going bad—that would free me from this craziness, right? Put me out of my sweet torture.
So was I afraid of the call going well? Because, in the end, it would be as empty as my marriage?
Tim was already frustrated with TTQ. I loved and needed her.
In the end, I pushed the numbers—in a text box. And quickly typed my message.
Can you get txt?
I put my phone down. Tried to focus on the cursor in front of me. A woman had just been raped on the page of my current work in progress. I couldn’t think about her.
Jumping up, I paced to the other side of my office. Halfway there, I heard my phone announce an incoming txt.
I hit my hip on the corner of my desk as I raced to get the phone. And then I fumbled that, dropping a very expensive PDA on the floor. The text message survived.
Yes. Who’s this?
Who’s this? Come on, I thought. He has to know. The number had a New Mexico exchange.
And now he had my number.
Would he call?
I hadn’t invited him to do so.
Sick to my stomach, I paced again, clutching my phone to my chest. I just couldn’t do this. It was time to get my life together, not fall apart. I’d promised myself I’d face my challenges head on.
How was I doing?
An e-mail had just come in. Thankful for the distraction, I went to see who’d contacted me. Please let it be one of my writer friends. Someone with a message for TTQ. Someone who would inadvertently bring TTQ rushing to Tara’s rescue.
It was junk mail.
And I glanced at the text message on my phone.
Wow, my computer has smoke rolling out of it! Do you IM? This may be easier for talking. Txt is not so good for me—man fingers!
My fingers flew over the tiny keyboard on my phone.
Yes I IM. And if you’re screwing with me and you really grew up to be some lascivious jerk who runs around out to get what you can get, then I’m really going to hate you.
I hit send and regretted the action the second I’d pushed the button. I was scared to death. An eighteen-year-old nerd who’d never had a date.
I signed onto IM on my computer.
And had an e-mail from Tim.
Ouch! You will say anything to break my heart again! K, I’m signed on to my IM . . . Now what?
He was right there, in real time—not an e-mail on the computer when I happened to get to it. Or he did.
I didn’t want to type sentences back and forth like teenagers. I didn’t have the patience for game playing. He’d asked me to call several times. It was obvious he wasn’t going to be presumptuous and call me. He was letting me make the choice.
Biting my lip to help control the trembling, I dialed the number I’d been silently reciting for three days, left my seat, and paced. I wasn’t going to be able to hear him if he answered. My heart was pumping blood so fast, the roaring was deafening.
“Hello?”
Oh my God. My whole body went weak. I almost dropped the phone again.
This wasn’t some strange man on the phone. Or on the other end of e-mails. It was a voice I completely recognized.
“Hi.”
“I can’t believe you actually called.”
“I know. I can’t believe it either.” I was shaking. Blinking back tears. And grinning. Hugely.
“What’s going on?”
“Not much. Just taking a break from the writing.”
“How’s that going today?”
“Okay. Tough. What are you doing?”
“Making dinner.”
Around my desk again, I pushed aside my chair, slid down to the floor and underneath my desk, leaning back against the inside wood. There was only so much exposure a girl like me could take.
Twenty-One
FORTY-FIVE MINUTES LATER, TIM AND I HAD NOT YET hung up. And there was still so much to say. Everything to talk about. I wanted to know the color of his socks.
And he wanted to know something else.
“What happened to you?”
I’d come out from under my desk and was lounging back in my chair. I straightened at the question, my chest tightening.
We’d been talking about the old days. College. Our time together.
“What do you mean?”
“You changed. Why?”
“I’m thirty years older! Of course I’ve changed. Life happened.” TTQ came naturally to my rescue with a lighthearted tone.
“Not now. Then. When I came to see you the summer of 1980. You were different.”
I didn’t say anything. I couldn’t. Everything was careening out of control. Sliding back under my desk, I willed my strength, my calm and confident resolve to find its way front and center.
“What happened is all I’m asking.”
I was too raw. He was too new.
“That’s not something I talk about. Ever. So, what’s this thing you called a carryin?”
He was having a carryin at work the next day.
“Uh uh. What happened?”
“Tim, I’m not kidding. I don’t talk about it. Period.”
“Then we might as well hang up right now.”
He didn’t mean that. “You’re being ridiculous!”
“I’m being serious. I mean it.”
“Why?”
“Because if you’re going to keep secrets, this doesn’t work for me. I can’t go back, or forward for that matter, if we aren’t going to be completely open and honest with each other. If you were anyone else, okay, maybe, but not you. Not me and you.”
My eyes filled with tears again. “You’re asking the impossible.”
“I don’t think so.”
“You have no idea.”
“What’s so hard about opening your mouth and speaking?”
“I open my mouth and no words come out.”
“I don’t buy that. Just say what’s on your mind.”
How could I get him to understand?
“On that topic, my mind goes blank. I open my mouth and all thoughts flee. I notice the carpet. A smudge on the windows . . .”
“Tara, what happened?”
“Tim, I swear, if I could talk about it I would. But I can’t. I never have. Not to anyone. Ever.”
“Then it’s time.”
“Please don’t do this.”
“I have to.”
Strange as it was, I understood that. Some part of me recognized the truth of what he’d just said. He had to push me.
I felt trapped. Panicky. And didn’t want to leave the safe enclosure of my desk.
“Can you at least give me some time? This is the first time we’ve talked in almost thirty years. Can’t we just take things as they come for a bit?”
It Happened on Maple Street Page 20
