It Happened on Maple Street

by Tara Taylor Quinn

  I had to tell him.

  I struggled for two days, pretending that everything was fine. And then, on Tuesday, he sent another message that changed everything yet again.

  Tara,

  I may be in Atlanta next week. Any book shows there by chance? I thought you’d said you had something coming up there. Write back or call if you want to talk about it . . . see you.

  That was it. No signature. Nothing. But he’d sent that song on Saturday. He said he listened to it all the time.

  That he felt exactly as the song said. It said nothing could take me away from him. It said I was all he wanted. It said he found love in me. It said I was his once in a lifetime.

  He was going to Atlanta. He wanted me to meet him there.

  We were more completely in each other’s lives than either of us had been with the partners we’d lived with, and we hadn’t set sight on each other for twenty-seven years.

  I wanted to ignore the post.

  I hit reply.

  Tim,

  As a matter of fact, I did have an invitation for Atlanta from my publicist. It’s an invitation from a bookseller there who wants to do an event. Is it worth following up on?

  Tara

  What in the hell was I doing? I couldn’t see Tim in person. He’d know just how much I’d changed. And he’d know that there was no future for us in the way he was obviously envisioning.

  Tim wanted to finish what we’d started thirty years before. He wanted to go all the way.

  My body was no longer capable of arousal.

  But Tim had asked me to meet him, and I hadn’t been able to tell him no. I needed to see him.

  Tim had to sit down when he read Tara’s email. He’d thrown Atlanta out there as an off chance, built out of his growing urgency to see her in person. He needed to look her in the eye, touch her, to feel her touch to make sure she was real and not some illusion he was building in his dreams. He was beginning to feel as awkward and tied up as he had at eighteen.

  She was so skittish, he’d expected excuses. Or an out-and-out negative. Not this tentative yes.

  How romantic would it be if they could meet over Valentine’s Day? If they could make this Atlanta thing work?

  How terrible if they made plans and she got cold feet? He had to keep it casual. Friends only. Until she was ready for more. Until he knew what had hurt his Tara so badly so could help her heal.

  His whole heart was on the line here—in a way his whole life was— and one way or another, it was time to take the next step. Even if he had to fly to Albuquerque.

  Atlanta would be easier. And quicker. She was considering it. If he pressured her he might blow the whole thing.

  He took his time to write her back.

  I will keep u in the loop on Atlanta . . . I’m waiting on an answer from my contact there . . .

  Tim

  I read the note Tuesday afternoon and felt like a whore all over again. Here I was considering a flight to Atlanta to see the man of my dreams, considering trusting him with my deepest dark secret, considering giving the stage in my life to Tara for the first time in twenty-seven years, and Tim was waiting on an answer from a contact? Like I was some broad that he’d get his jollies with if we happened to meet up?

  And if not, then, no loss?

  But he’d sent me that song. He’d been telling me for two weeks that he wanted my all. That I had his deepest heart.

  He hadn’t sounded the least bit excited about Atlanta.

  I fretted for too long. And then did what I had to do.

  Tim had just gotten home from work Tuesday, was in from the frigid temperatures for the night, when her e-mail came through.

  Tim,

  I’m really afraid you’re building me into something I’m not. I just keep getting the impression that you’re building this fantasy and I’m not going to possibly be able to live up to it and then reality will set in and I’m going to fall harder than I’ve ever fallen before. I’m forty-seven years old. With a body that’s lived forty-seven not-easy years. I take care of it, but I can’t help the aging process. These days I’m pretty sure I look better with my clothes on than off. And I can’t make the secret between us just disappear. I have no guarantee that it ever will. I can promise to never quit trying, but I can’t promise that I ever will get by it.

  And what happens when the newness wears off and it’s real life and ordinary?

  You sent me that song, saying that you listen to it all the time and that’s how you feel and it’s about being in someone’s arms. You don’t know yet how that’s going to feel, so how can you feel that about me? You think it’s going to be heaven, and what if it isn’t?

  I look really really bad sometimes. I get irritable and tense. And wrinkles are just around the corner. Nothing magic about any of that.

  Take a break from me. You deserve it!

  Tara

  The first time he read the letter he panicked. She was doing it again. Asking for her ring back.

  Atlanta had frightened her off, just like he’d thought it might.

  He went out to the kitchen. Had a spoonful of peanut butter. Two sips from the open can of soda in the refrigerator.

  And went back to read the note again.

  She was running scared. Afraid of all the practical realities keeping them apart?

  Maybe she’d never wanted anything more than a pen pal.

  The things he didn’t understand were looming larger and larger between them. He had to know what had happened to her. What had changed her so drastically from the girl he’d known at Wright State to the woman he’d seen in the summer of 1980?

  Did she have a child out there, one she’d had with James outside of marriage that last year of college? Had she lost custody of the child? Had James had an affair? Giving her trust issues?

  Whatever it was had been bad enough that she never mentioned the guy to anyone. That was pretty damned bad.

  Alone in his house, wondering what to do about dinner, Tim didn’t want to think about secrets between him and Tara. Whatever it was, they’d get by it. They had to.

  Whatever it was, he’d just accept it. Deal with it. Better that than lose her. Everything was under control.

  Except her fear. She needed honesty. Bone-deep honesty. The most painful kind.

  He’d promised to give it to her.

  Tara,

  Trust me, you’re safe. You are not just a fantasy, you’re a wonderful woman. I want to treat you with respect and ease into this. I know the past is very difficult. Let’s work through it together.

  It may be difficult at times for both of us, but we just have to take deep breaths and hold on and reassure each other.

  My eyes and heart are open and that is what scares me most, because I have never let anyone see this deep inside. There are some barriers and fences to get around. but once you’re inside try not to move things too much because they have been in the same place for a long time. Just dust them off, and when things are settled, you can rearrange them to fit you better.

  One other thing—sex is important, but if we both can’t enjoy it then it really has no meaning. Once we’re in the mode of sex, then I probably won’t be able to get enough of it, but I’ve made it this long without it—a little longer won’t hurt. No, I’m not trying to build up to some climactic meeting where we fall into each other’s arm and we make passionate love and everything is great, but it can happen, even at our age. (Okay, yes, I am building to this.) But right now I’m interested in your heart. Just be yourself.

  I don’t want you to think that I expect anything from you because we were together years ago. The magic will take care of itself; let’s get to know each other. I’m the worrier, remember!

  Tim

  I read the e-mail on Wednesday morning and picked up the phone and called him.

  “Have you heard anything about Atlanta?”

  “Not for sure yet, but it looks like I’ll be going next Thursday morning. What about you?”

&n
bsp; “I heard from my publicist. There’s a signing Thursday afternoon. I’d fly in Wednesday night and fly out Friday.” I was in my office, my book document open. I was going to work all day and into the night. I had my priorities.

  Besides, the book was going well. I could feel the people so clearly, and the words were flying out of me.

  I was good at what I did. I needed to focus on that.

  “Sounds good.”

  “I can’t believe we’re really going to do this.”

  “It’s inevitable.”

  “I . . . have something to tell you.”

  “I hope so. I’ve been waiting.”

  “But, Tim . . . if I do . . . it’s not . . . I’ve never told anyone . . .” He knew that. I’d already said so. But did he understand the ramifications? How could he?

  “Then it’s probably time you did.”

  “You just have to promise . . .” What? “Just . . . I don’t want you to think any less of me . . .”

  “I’m not going to. Whatever it is, we’ll get through it. You just need to tell me. Once that’s done, you’ll see, it won’t be such a big deal. It’s just getting things out that’s hard.”

  I knew it was more than that. But understood that he couldn’t possibly know.

  I left it at that. And tried to believe that we really could make something work.

  Twenty-Three

  TIM WAS IN TROUBLE. HE MEANT EVERY WORD HE SAID to Tara. He was going to be there for her. He would be her rock in the storm. But he was human, too. And he had issues of his own.

  Her reticence was not good. The letter telling him to take a break had scared the shit out of him. Hell, he was a walking mass of paranoia where she was concerned. Any other time in his life, he’d have removed himself from the situation. He couldn’t do that with Tara.

  He didn’t like that fact.

  But a man knows what a man knows, and that woman had him by the . . . heart.

  Tara,

  I just want to get this down before we see each other. I just can’t take you walking out of my life again. I’m trying to be completely honest and show you everything that goes thru my head and my heart. This time you won’t have any doubts that I’m telling you everything about what I’m feeling.

  I have a lot of issues with trust and security. When I feel threatened I shut down and suppress all of my feeling, like I did when you wanted your ring back. I hurt a lot of people doing that. All that I’m asking is be careful with me and make damned sure this is what you want. Because I’m already attached too much to you to go back.

  When you talk to me, there is a calm that comes from that, and I need it more and more.

  Tim

  I read Tim’s post late Wednesday evening. And called him for a second time that day.

  His vulnerability sent my heart into overdrive.

  “Hey,” I said as soon as he picked up. “I hope it’s not too late.”

  “It’s never too late for you.”

  “I got your e-mail. You are what I want, Tim. I have no doubt about that. It’s you wanting me when you know everything that worries me.”

  “Oh, babe, believe me, I want you.”

  It was almost eleven his time and he sounded groggy. “Were you in bed?”

  “Yeah, but I wasn’t sleeping yet. I was lying here thinking about you.”

  I slid down to the floor into my desk alcove and leaned back, too tired to fight issues at the moment. “What about me?”

  “What are you wearing?”

  “What?”

  “What do you have on tonight?”

  “Jeans. A yellow shirt. And a jacket that matches them both.”

  “Anything under them I should know about?”

  Oh, God. This was the Tim I knew the best. The man who had sex on his mind and wasn’t shy talking about it. This was my Tim from 1977. He was way out of my league now.

  “Like what?”

  “Stuff I like.”

  I smiled. “What do you like?”

  “You know what I like.”

  “Tell me.” I didn’t recognize myself.

  “I like a nice playground, and from what I remember, you have a very nice one.”

  “It’s probably not real gentlemanly of you to remind me of that.”

  “Why not? It’s just the two of us here.”

  “I know, but . . .”

  “You asked me what I was doing. I was lying in bed thinking about you. About how it used to be for us. Thinking about touching you like that now.”

  Atlanta. They might be seeing each other very soon. I was a changed woman. I was going to have to tell him. But I was enjoying the conversation so much I couldn’t stop.

  He was my Tim. And safely far away.

  “I really want to play on your playground.”

  “You’re embarrassing me.” But his words were building a curious tension inside of me, too.

  “I didn’t mean to.”

  “It’s okay.”

  “It’s better than okay. It would be great.”

  I didn’t think so. Thirty years ago, sure, but now . . .

  He’d said we’d take our time. That he was interested in my heart.

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “I just know.”

  “I haven’t been with a man for a lot of years.”

  “I figured as much when you told me about Chris.”

  “So . . .” I had no idea why I was engaging in this conversation.

  “So I will go slow. Be gentle.”

  “I like the sound of that.” Surprisingly enough, I did. I closed my eyes and was eighteen again. Listening to the sexy, sleepy sound of Tim’s voice.

  “I’ll start out caressing your back. And then your stomach. And as I remember, you liked it when I touched your breasts, too.”

  “You have a good memory.”

  “Of you, yes. I have some very, very good memories.”

  I smiled. I was tired of fighting everything.

  “Once you’re ready, I’ll slide inside you.”

  “Tim. You promised. No sex.”

  “Until we’re in it together.”

  “I’m not in it.”

  I said the words, but something had happened. Down there. He’d just made me wet. Where I’d been nothing but dry since James had defiled me.

  So much was happening so quickly. I’d gone from being in cold storage for ten years to living in the eye of a hurricane. Some of my tension came from the deadline. I knew that.

  And some of the emotional upheaval belonged to Annie and Blake, the hero and heroine in The Baby Gamble, the book I was immersed in. Annie was twice divorced, finished with love, and wanting a baby. Blake was a released political captive fighting inner demons that prevented him from loving. I think they were both stealing parts of themselves from me.

  I was also beyond myself with excitement over the possibility of seeing my Tim again for the first time in almost thirty years.

  And I was scared to death of losing him when he knew that I wasn’t coming to him as a complete woman. I could give him sex. After our phone call the other night, I was pretty sure I would if he asked. Tim had made it pretty clear he wanted a future with me. And I wanted one with him, too. I couldn’t pretend otherwise. But I knew better than to hope for it. Tim wouldn’t settle for one-sided pleasure—even if the side was his.

  Friday morning I heard from my publicist that I was set up to sign books in Atlanta the following Thursday. I texted the news to him. He texted back that he was going to be in Atlanta.

  He called then, from his desk at work, to find out my travel details. By the time we hung up, my heart was pounding and I had to go outside for some fresh air. I was hot. And cold. And excited. And scared as hell.

  I’d done it. I’d committed to meeting Tim in Atlanta. I had my hotel. He had his. I was arriving Wednesday night—Valentine’s night. He would be there sometime Thursday.

  I was really going to see him. After thirty years . . .

&n
bsp; And the what-ifs were deafening.

  Tim called Saturday afternoon. He’d been with a buddy of his, watching a local basketball game. I was, as usual, in my office.

  “I was thinking about you the whole time I was at the game,” Tim confessed. “Thinking about holding you.”

  That liquid warmth spread through me again. For the second time in twenty-seven years. It whipped from my heart to regions down below in the space of seconds.

  “How many pages did you get done?” he continued, while I was busy trying to analyze things that weren’t meant to be logically understood. Like how his voice could do physical things to my body, when physical touch left me cold and dry.

  “Fifteen,” I answered his question. Thankfully the book was still cooperating. “Verne died.”

  “He did.” Tim’s voice dropped. “Who’s Verne?”

  “This guy. He died on the toilet.” I started to laugh. And then added, “I’m sorry, that’s sick. I didn’t plan it that way. It’s just . . . someone went into his apartment looking for him and there he was, dead on the toilet.” I laughed again.

  “Who’s Verne?” He sounded odd.

  And I realized that I’d left out a key part of my conversation. “An old drunk in the book.”

  “Ohhhh.”

  “He’s the uncle of a character in the book that follows mine. It’s a series of five connected books by five different authors, and I was told to kill him off.”

  “Got it.”

  “I have to have the book done before I get on the plane on Wednesday.”

  “I won’t keep you long then.”

  “No, that’s okay. I’ll just stay up late tonight.” I welcomed the distraction. I wasn’t sleeping in my own bed, in my own home. I wasn’t sleeping much, period.