by Brenda Hill
It was a good thing freeway traffic was light because tears blurred my vision. I managed to blink most of them away, but a couple escaped to roll down my cheeks. Most of my life I’d been able to control my emotions, and I’d never been so threatened with tears. Why this sudden tendency to cry? I didn’t know if I felt for the babies who were denied a chance at life or I was selfishly concerned about my own fate. I’d had a chance at life and had worked hard to build a secure home and family, yet here I was, abandoned in my forties, my home threatened, my finances non-existent. Not all of it had gone for Mac’s medical bills. If he hadn’t taken everything, I would’ve had enough to make the move to Minnesota. Sure, I’d have to work, but I wouldn’t be frightened every minute, unsure of where I’d live. Or how.
Why had Mac taken the money? And what had he done with it? I asked those questions over and over again until they became a sort of mantra and I wished he were here so I could shake the answers out of him.
What was so damned important that he would have betrayed me like this?
I glanced at the time. The banks were still open, so, pressing down on the accelerator, I shot down the freeway. I was going to get some answers.
***
Walking across the lobby, I headed for the first desk and spoke to a Latino woman in her thirties. Lacy Figueras, the nameplate said. Her brown eyes reflected sympathy as she listened patiently to my story, but she ultimately told me she couldn’t help.
“I don’t understand. My husband and I had accounts here for at least twenty years. I’m just asking if he, before his death, opened a different account under his name.” I dug in my handbag, thankful I kept copies of his death certificate. I handed one to her. “This proves he passed away, and, here’s my driver’s license. I’m his widow, and I have a right know.”
“I’m sorry,” she said, “but we can’t give out that information. It’s protected by the Privacy Act.”
“But we were married and it’s my money, too. It’s not like I’m a stranger off the streets trying to commit grand theft.” My voice started to rise. “My husband didn’t spend that money on luxury vacations or sports cars; he was ill. He had to put it somewhere and I need it.”
“I’m sorry.”
I took a deep breath trying to stem the exasperation. “I want to talk to your supervisor.”
“Certainly,” Ms Figueras said, rising. “I’ll be right back.”
Teeth clinched so tightly my temples began to throb, I waited alone on that hard chair in the bank lobby, fighting the urge to jump up and scream. Why were they so intent on protecting his rights and not mine? I was getting the shaft by everyone and I was damned tired of it.
Ms Figueras returned with a tall thin woman whose blonde French twist was streaked with gray. She looked crisp and efficient in her brown linen suit, but her eyes radiated warmth. I hadn’t expected someone like that, and for a moment it threw me. Mouth drawn in sympathy, the woman offered her hand.
“Mrs. Montgomery, I’m Carol Serquinia. So sorry to hear of your loss.”
Reluctantly, I took her hand. I didn’t want polite chit-chat; I wanted to hold onto my anger.
“Thank you,” I told her, “Mrs. uh....” Good God, did everyone’s name in that bank have five syllables?
“Carol, please.” The woman smiled. “Everyone has trouble with that name.”
Automatically, I smiled back. Then, realizing what I had done, I straighten myself—my posture, my face. I used to pride myself on my courtesy to other people, but what did that ever get me? If I played all nicey-nice, we’d smile politely at each other and I’d still walk out of here with no more information that I’d had walking in. Maybe, even if I held firm, I still wouldn’t get what I needed, but at least I was going to fight. After all, I wasn’t trying to get anything that didn’t belong to me.
“Carol, while I appreciate your sympathy, what I need is information.” I told her the story. “The fact is, my husband left me almost penniless and I don’t know what he did with the money. Surely you can tell me if he opened another account here. Or a safety deposit box.”
“I truly wish I could help you, but even if I’d known him and had personally opened a different account in his name, I still couldn’t tell you.”
The anger bubbled to the surface. “Why not?”
“Under the Privacy Policy Act, we’re not allowed to reveal information about anyone’s account to anyone not listed on the account.”
“His privacy doesn’t matter any more,” I told her through gritted teeth. “Don’t you understand? My husband is dead.”
“After no activity for two and a half years—”
“Two and a half years?” I almost screeched. “Are you serious?”
“After that time,” Carol continued, her voice calm and reasonable, “the contents are turned over to the state. Perhaps if you had an account number?”
“If I had an account number, I wouldn’t be having this problem.”
“Have you searched through all his papers? Even a crumpled deposit slip or evidence of a wire transfer would be helpful.”
“Of course I’ve been through his things. I’ve found nothing. Absolutely nothing.”
Carol shook her head. “I wish I could help, but it doesn’t appear as if there’s anything I can do.”
“You mean,” I said, “that this bank will sell my name to the highest bidder, but you won’t tell a widow if her husband had an account here?” I rose, too angry to stay seated.
“Mrs. Montgomery, we don’t—”
“Skip it.” I cut her off and stormed out the door.
Two and a half years. Now what was I going to do?
***
When I pulled onto my street, I spotted a beige Lexus sitting in my driveway. Terry? But that couldn’t be. I’d been very careful to never give him my address. And it was Ben’s company policy to keep his employee’s personal information confidential, so he couldn’t have gotten the information from the office.
As I cruised closer, I saw Terry standing by the driver’s door, arms folded, his face raised to the clear spring sky. I couldn’t deny that a secret place in my heart, one that I wasn’t sure I wanted to acknowledge, was happy to see him.
But he was a complication, and I felt so tired, so defeated, that I just couldn’t handle another one in my life right now.
I pulled alongside and rolled down the window.
“How did you find out where I live?”
“Beautiful view you have here,” he said smiling, his expression pure innocence. “I could enjoy living next to the mountains.”
“Live here? You’re out of your mind. You have to leave right now, you could be dangerous.” I pushed the accelerator and the car shot into the garage. Slamming on the brakes, I stopped within three inches of the back wall. For some strange reason, my equilibrium seemed to disappear when Terry was around. I clicked the button to lower the garage door, fully intending to leave him outside. But he was too fast. He managed to duck under the garage door before it closed.
“Now what kind of greeting is that? How about, ‘I’m so glad to see you, Terry.’ Anything like that would be nice, you know.”
“What’s the matter with you?” I asked, my voice rising. “It’s not polite just to show up unannounced at someone’s home.”
“Now that I’m here, you wouldn’t refuse to talk to me, would you? Not after all the trouble I had finding you.”
“How did you find me? If it was Nina at the office, I’ll—”
“Relax,” he said. “Trying to pry information out of her was worse than talking to a government agent.”
“Well?”
“You know, waiting for you dried me out. I’d be willing to trade information for a cup of coffee. How about it?” He held up a white paper bag. “I even brought the donuts.”
Part of me wondered why I didn’t march inside and slam the door in his smug face. The other was damn glad to see him.
I smiled. I honestly tried not to, but
I couldn’t seem to stop. So I invited him in.
It was the donuts, of course.
Chapter Twelve
I showed Terry into the living room, but when I walked into the kitchen to make coffee, he trailed behind.
Instantly I tensed and regretted inviting him in.
Mac had loved sitting at the table on his days off, watching me, making helpful suggestions. No matter if I was chopping an onion or washing dishes, he always suggested a better way. And I actually tried. I thought him so wise, so mature, that’d I set about doing my task his way, usually taking three times as long, and, I realized now, resenting every minute.
Now, aware of Terry in the kitchen, I bustled around, making coffee, setting the table for donuts. I finally glanced at him. He was watching me, but the look in his eyes was far from critical. His message was one of appreciation, of desire. I almost dropped the plate.
He took a big bite of his caramel-nut roll, then drank about half of his coffee. “Delicious. I just knew you’d make great coffee.”
Simple words, but I suddenly felt glorious. Pulling up a chair next to him, I helped myself to a cinnamon roll.
“So how did you find me?”
“My best friend’s a cop. I badgered him until he found you.”
My mouth dropped open.
“I know, among other things,” he went on, looking quite pleased with himself, “how old you are, where you were born, and how old you were when you got married.”
I rose. “Are you out of your mind? Get out. Just leave—right now.”
Terry had risen with me, all joviality gone. “I’m sorry. I guess I do sound like a nut. But please, let me explain.”
“How dare you? What gave you the right—”
“I had to find you, Lisa. While I’d love to bring flowers and candy and wait until you decide to see me, I can’t afford the time.”
And then, before I could say another word, he cradled my face in his hands and kissed me.
I should have slapped him, I suppose, or pushed him away. But I’d never been kissed that way before. Instead of plunging his tongue into my mouth, he was so tender, caressing my lips with his so lightly, so delicately that I almost wasn’t sure he was touching me. Then he ran his tongue over my bottom lip and gently sucked it. Every nerve in my body ignited.
When he drew back, I learned toward him, almost panting, wanting more. But suddenly, I realized what I was doing and was horrified. How could I let myself get so out of control? Legs trembling, I pushed out of his arms and slid onto my chair.
Terry knelt beside me and slipped one arm around my waist, another around my shoulders, pulling my head to his chest.
“I have to be with you, Lisa,” he said. “I have to touch you. I don’t come alive until I’m with you.”
I didn’t resist. His arms felt so good that for once, I let my defenses down and rested my head on his chest, content to bask in the warmth of him, so close that I could hear his heart beating. I felt safe. Secure. His embrace was a sanctuary I’d never known before.
After all those years of marriage, why hadn’t I felt that way with Mac?
After a few quiet moments, I moved out of Terry’s embrace. “You keep saying something about the lack of time. Now I want to know everything.”
Hand in hand, we went into the living room and sat together on the sofa. Mac’s sofa. The one he’d insisted on buying even though it was far too large for the room.
“I don’t know a thing about you,” I told Terry. “I have no idea what you do for a living, if you have brothers or sisters, or even if you have a criminal record. I know nothing, yet I’ve invited you into my home, let you kiss me. That doesn’t say much for me.”
Terry smiled and stroked my cheek, gently, tenderly. “Those big gray eyes say everything I need to know, so I guess it’s only fair that you should know about me.” He settled back in the soft cushion. “When I was a kid,” he began, “I loved the big red fire trucks. Like a lot of boys, I’d run outside whenever I heard the sirens, just hoping I’d get to see one up close. It was only natural that I decided to be a fireman.”
“You? A fireman?”
“What? You don’t think I’d dash into a burning building to save a gerbil?” He placed his hand over his heart. “You wound me. I’ll have you know I performed heroic feats every day. My peers were astounded.”
I laughed. “I bet they were astounded.”
“Oh, my lady, you laughed. My joy knows no bounds.”
What was it about this man, what special quality did he possess that made me feel so free? And happy? I couldn’t remember the last time I’d felt like laughing.
“Believe it or not,” he said, “I retired as fire chief.”
“Actually, I do believe you. I think you’re capable of anything.”
He groaned and folded me into his arms. “Oh, Lisa, let me into your life, let me love you. I need you so....”
That was when Terry began to talk about his marriage, and I listened, but something was nagging at me. I felt myself drifting, growing more uncomfortable with each moment.
“And I was content to live the rest of my life with her,” he said, “resigned to knowing I’d never experience true love or desire. Until I saw you.”
I strained to hear every word, but I found myself squirming. What was wrong with me?
Terry clasped my hand in his and I suddenly realized the problem. We were sitting on the sofa on which Mac had lived out the last few months of his life, the one piece of furniture that, since his death I’d retreated to when I needed to feel his presence.
Sliding my hand from Terry’s, I got to my feet. “This isn’t right. I can’t do this here.”
“Is it something I did?” Terry asked, clearly puzzled.
I shook my head. “It’s not you. It’s the sofa.”
“What?”
“This sofa was Mac’s.” I explained my husband’s illness and the last few months of his life. “We can’t be together on this sofa. It sounds crazy, but I feel like I’m betraying him.”
“I’m so sorry you had to go through that. And I can’t do anything to change his death. But the sofa? That I can fix. It’s simple. I’ll simply move to the chair.” He moved to the wing chair and sat down. “Better?”
I nodded, but I was still feeling miserable.
“Look,” he said, leaning forward, resting his elbows on his thighs, “you’ve been through a lot in the past couple of years. Let yourself grieve for your husband, the life you had with him. I’m not trying to take that away.”
With those words, everything about Mac’s illness, Shanna’s attitude, and my lack of funds came pouring out.
“Oh, honey,” he said when I’d run out of words, “I wish I could help.” He crossed to me and lifted me to my feet and just held me close to him. He seemed in no hurry, made no demands. I rested against him, loving the pleasure of simply being held.
After a few moments I broke away and Terry took the chair again. “I know you’re vulnerable right now. I don’t want to take advantage or force you into something you’re not ready for, but let me just be with you. I’ll be happy with anything that’s left.”
“But I have so much to do. And I need to find out about the money,” I added, going on to tell him what had happened at the bank.
“Why not go to the cops? I bet my friend could help.”
I’d never considered the police because Stan had helped me to understand that technically, a crime had not been committed.
“I appreciate the offer, but I’m not sure what I’ll do.” I rose. “Let’s have some coffee. I could do with a shot of caffeine right now.” After we were settled again at the table and I’d helped myself to another donut, I felt better.
“Now I want to hear why you keep saying you don’t have time.” I sat back, expecting him to tell me something about aging hormones, that he wanted a chance to sample wild, extramarital sex while he could still function—although the thought of wild sex with me was laughab
le.
“I have Huntington’s disease,” he said in a rush, “or Huntington’s Chorea, a muscle disease that will eventually rob me....” He choked up a moment. “Eventually it will rob me of every bodily function that makes me human.”
I was stunned. Not Terry, not this vibrant man so full of life. “Oh, no.”
“But I’m not dead yet, Lisa, and I intend to grab onto life like I never have before.”
The news took my breath away. No wonder he had acted in such an impetuous way. I understood it all now. But what a position for me to be in. If I warmed to him now, would he think it was just pity?
“I’m so sorry,” I said. It was inadequate, but it was all that I could think of to say. “Isn’t there anything that can be done? Science is always coming up with new cures.”
“The doctor didn’t think so, but I suppose there’s always hope. Even if the worst happens, you don’t have to feel sorry for me. I have five or six good years, maybe more, and now that I’ve found you, they’re going to be happy ones.” He took my hands in his. “I’d rather have a few good years with you than another lifetime of the half-life I’ve lived so far.”
The sincerity in his eyes held me, but how could I accept responsibility for someone else’s life when my own was filled with turmoil?
“God, Terry, you can’t depend on me. I don’t even know where I’ll be living in the next few months much less the next few years. I can’t commit to you or to anything else.”
“You don’t have to commit. I just want to see you, to be near you.”
“Surely, there are other things you want to do in the time you have left. You should find someone who can return all the love you have to give. I don’t think I’m capable of that. I never have been.”
“Then something was wrong, because I’ve never known anyone as warm as you.”
Me? Warm? So many times during lovemaking Mac had told me to loosen up, to relax, and I tried so hard to do everything right. But I just couldn’t feel. Frigid, Mac had said over and over again. Passionless.
