Commitments

by Barbara Delinsky

  “He’s been transferred.”

  “They told me that much, but to where?”

  There was a pause. “I’m afraid I can’t say.”

  “Do you know?”

  There was another pause. “I shouldn’t say that either but, yes, I know.”

  “Why can’t you tell me where he is?”

  “I’m told that information is classified.”

  “But I’m his … I’m … I’ve been visiting him regularly.”

  “I know that, Mrs. Stone,” David said in his deep voice, “and I’ll tell you what I can. Derek was transferred because of rumor of trouble. Nothing has happened,” he assured her, as Derek had instructed him to do. “Nothing will happen. But the authorities want to keep him under wraps until his release.”

  “What does that mean?” she asked very quietly. She’d have been prepared to climb the Rockies if Derek was stashed in a hut on the top, but she had the disturbing notion that she wouldn’t be allowed even that.

  “It means,” David confirmed, “that no one will know where he is until he hits the street.”

  “You do.”

  “I’m his lawyer. I was instrumental in getting him transferred. Two months, three at the outside—that’s all he has left. To let something go wrong at this late date would be insane.”

  Sabrina heard his determination. He was on Derek’s side. Instinctively she knew that she could trust the man.

  “But I want to see him,” she said. Two months, maybe three going without? The thought was painful.

  “I’m sorry. And so is he,” David added wryly. “He’s not at all pleased with the Department of Corrections or with me right about now, but, believe me, this is the best way.”

  Sabrina didn’t want to believe that, so she tried a new tack. “I can be trusted. If I was allowed to see him, I wouldn’t tell a soul where he is. You could even blindfold me,” she pleaded, “drive me around for hours, change cars in the middle.”

  David had to laugh at that. “The Department would never buy it.” He hesitated for an instant. “On the other hand, the Department never said you couldn’t write letters.” It was Derek who’d said that. He’d been afraid her letters would be read. “If you were to send them to my office, I’d be glad to forward them in a packet of legal papers. That way you’d be insured privacy.”

  “Could Derek write back the same way?”

  “Sure.”

  “Do you think he would?”

  “I don’t know. He hates writing.”

  “I know.”

  “On the other hand…” He was remembering Derek’s voice when he’d asked him to call Sabrina. The man was in love. There was no mistaking it. Nor was there any mistaking that Sabrina returned the feeling. “On the other hand, I think it would be good for him. He’s been calmer since you’ve been seeing him, more frustrated in some ways but calmer overall. I think it’d be great if you could write.” He paused, then asked cautiously, “What say you to that?”

  “I say that it’s not as good as seeing him.”

  “True, but it’s better than nothing.”

  “I’m not sure I like the kinds of choices you give, Mr. Cottrell,” Sabrina said, her voice stern yet without rancor.

  “Neither do I. But trust me. That’s all I ask. I think the world of Derek. He doesn’t deserve what he’s gotten in the past two years, and he certainly doesn’t deserve what’s happened now. All we can do is try to make things a little easier for him.” He hesitated. “Will you write?”

  “Of course I’ll write.”

  David gave her the address of both his home and his office, then said, “Thank you, Mrs. Stone. Maybe when all this is over, we’ll have a chance to meet.”

  “I’d like that,” she said sincerely, then went on with greater urgency, “You have my number. I should be back in New York by the middle of next week. If anything comes up, if there’s any change, if there’s any possibility that I can see Derek, will you call?”

  “Sure thing, ma’am.”

  She had to settle for that.

  * * *

  “Dear Derek,” Sabrina wrote on stationery that had the tiny emblem of Cedar Ledge embossed on its upper left-hand corner, “What a horrible day! I couldn’t believe it when I arrived at Parkersville to find that you weren’t there. No one could tell me where you’d gone, or if they could they wouldn’t, and all avenues I might have taken to find out were closed for the weekend—”

  She crumpled the paper and tossed it in the wastebasket. She couldn’t write to Derek and complain!

  Taking another sheet of paper from the rolltop desk, she picked up the pen and tried again. “Dear Derek, I’m not sure I’d want to relive today. I popped in at Parkersville and promptly panicked when they told me—”

  Again she crumpled the paper and tossed it in the basket. If Derek learned she’d made a wasted stop at Parkersville, he’d feel bad. Besides, panicked was the wrong word. It made her sound like the alarmist Nick had thought her. In truth, she felt that she’d had cause to panic, but that wasn’t the issue. The word was revealing on several different levels.

  Taking a third sheet of paper from the desk, she gave it another shot. “Dear Derek, I’m writing you from a charming inn, old New England at its best. The furniture is of polished mahogany, Colonial-style and weathered. The artwork is classic Americana, the rugs handwoven, and the canopy on the bed—”

  With a clipped growl, she crushed the sheet in her hand and sent it after the others. Derek didn’t want a decorator’s manual or a travelogue. He didn’t need to hear about all the charm he was missing. And if she went on about the canopy on the bed, he’d think she had a one-track mind.

  There were times when, where Derek was concerned, she too thought that. But this wasn’t such a time.

  Before she took another piece of stationery from its narrow shelf, she composed her thoughts. Only when she was sure she was ready did she start. The pre-planning paid off.

  “Dear Derek. You are very fortunate to be working with David Cottrell. Not only is he loyal and devoted, but he is a whiz at dealing with people. He explained—patiently, with understanding and encouragement—that you’ve been transferred for security reasons, and I agree that keeping you safe for the next few months is a small price to pay for my not being able to visit. I can be selfish at times, I guess. I’ll have to work on that.

  “Exciting news: I’ve sold the apartment and taken a studio. It’s a loft, actually, and it’s huge. It’s in an old warehouse that’s being redone. One entire wall is of glass and looks out on the Hudson, and there are four skylights.

  “You’re probably wondering whether I know what I’m doing, making momentous decisions like this at the drop of a hat. I didn’t plan to do it. I called my broker idly to ask what the chances were of selling my place, and it happened that she had a buyer right there. We signed the preliminary papers last Monday. On Tuesday I took the studio.

  “The thing is, I’ve always taken my time with decisions. But it has occurred to me that, for all my care, some of my decisions have been duds. So I made this one on impulse.” She recalled another decision she’d made on impulse, the one that had taken her to Parkersville that first day. She hadn’t regretted it yet.

  “You’re probably asking yourself what happened to leaving the city and finding someplace peaceful and friendly. Well, that’s why I’m here.” She drew an arrow from here to the inn’s emblem. “I’ll be seeing Nicky tomorrow, but after that I’m going house-hunting. I’ve never lived in the country. I thought I’d give it a try.”

  Having reached the bottom of the page, she took another sheet from the desk.

  “I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking that I’m hanging on to Nicky, and you’re right. I miss him. When I’m in New York, I feel too distant. Maybe this will help. Ideally, I’d like to be an hour away from the Greenhouse. That way I’ll know I can reach Nicky in an emergency, but I won’t be able to stop in too often—which wouldn’t be any better
for Nicky than it would be for me.

  “I was thinking of looking for something near Bennington. I’m told that there are writers scattered around. It might be fun—uh, forget I just said that.” She’d written too much to crush the whole sheet. “I’m not doing this for social reasons. Most immediately, I’m doing it because I need a change. New York holds memories for me that aren’t all fantastic. For professional reasons, I want to keep a place there, but I’ll be spending most of my time in Vermont. I want land and trees and fresh air. I want to be able to drive into the nearest town and greet the grocer by name, and I want him to return the greeting. I want to walk down the streets and see people smile. But then I want to be able to return to my own place and just breathe.”

  She paused, settling against the ladder back of the chair for a bit. She could almost hear Derek asking why. He probed her feelings that way. It surprised her that in such a short time she’d come to expect it, rely on it. And now she’d miss it.

  Perhaps, though, it was for the best.

  Tugging her feelings from the corner of her mind where they were trying to hide, she struggled to put them to paper. “I need to be alone, I think. No, alone is the wrong word. I need to be on my own. I’ve never really been that. I think it’s about time I was. When Nick left—” she wrote, then raised her pen from the paper. Derek didn’t want to hear about Nick. What man wanted to hear about a woman’s husband—or ex-husband?

  Then again, Derek was different. He had already lived through much of her personal turmoil. He would appreciate her thoughts.

  So she lowered the pen and went on. “… I was terrified. There was no real reason why I should have been, but I was. Was? At times I still am. Before, even when things were unhappy, I could define myself in terms of wife and mother. Now I can’t. I can’t rely on anyone to give me definition.

  “Being by myself is something I have to do. Maybe it’s part of the growing-up process. Then again”—she set aside the second completed page and started a third—“maybe it’s an early mid-life crisis. For the first time in my life, I’ll be answerable to no one but myself. It should be interesting.”

  She gnawed on the end of the pen for a moment, then wrote, “I haven’t forgotten what you asked me to do the last time we were together. I’ve already begun. Would you like me to send you information as I go along, or would you rather a single comprehensive report? I’m not sure how much you want there.” She shivered, then wrote, “I’m not sure how much you have there. I’m hoping that the conditions are better than those at Parkersville—more room, more privacy, more sun—something, anything to compensate for the restrictions.”

  Dropping the pen, she steepled her hands at her mouth. She could see him so clearly, a tall, tapering figure with dark hair and dark eyes, ropy arms and long, lean legs. She could see him coming toward her in that tight-hipped, sexy gait, and she wanted to touch him.

  Pressing her hands tighter together, she waited until the wave of yearning passed; then, with a slightly unsteady sigh, she picked up the pen.

  “David is a sweetheart to be forwarding this on to you. I think I would feel totally stifled if I couldn’t communicate at all—unless—would you rather I not write? Once before you said I shouldn’t, and if you still feel that way, I’ll understand. The same goes for your writing back. If you decide to do it, David will know where I am.

  “In the meantime, I’ll be thinking of you. I’ll be thinking of you often.”

  She held the pen in midair and contemplated the next wording. Sincerely? Too formal. The same for Yours Truly and Best Wishes. All My Best wasn’t too bad, but it still wasn’t right.

  There was only one thing that was right, and it seemed pointless not to use it. Lowering the pen, she wrote, “Love, Sabrina.”

  * * *

  Derek read and reread Sabrina’s letter. Sitting on the floor of his cell with his back to the cinder-block wall, he closed his eyes, thought about it, then opened his eyes and read it again. Would he rather she not write? Would he rather not breathe?

  Sure, he’d told David she shouldn’t write, but that was because when he’d spoken to David it had been just after dawn and he’d been furious. He’d been shoved awake in the middle of the night and, without a word of explanation, smuggled out of Parkersville in a windowless van, driven the three-plus hours to Boston and shuttled by police boat to Pine Island. Only then had he been told about the threat to his life.

  It wasn’t a new threat. Derek knew who’d made it, knew that it had resulted from a petty argument he’d had with one of the other inmates months before and that the only reason it had reached the warden’s ear was a need on the part of a third inmate to earn brownie points.

  The threat had no substance, but David Cottrell’s threats had apparently reached the warden’s ear as well, and the warden had been more intimidated by those. He wasn’t taking a chance on dirtying his record. Far easier to wash his hands of Derek.

  David, who had pushed for the transfer as a tactical measure and had even chosen the spot, hadn’t been Derek’s favorite person at that moment shortly after dawn. Only later, when Derek had calmed down, had he understood that the condition of secrecy hadn’t been David’s to impose. It had been imposed by the commissioner, who, frankly—he told David—wanted Derek the hell out of his system as soon as possible. But the law was the law, and Pine Island would be as safe a place as any, so said the commissioner, and David had agreed.

  Pine Island stood in the waters outlying Boston Harbor. The island’s only structure was a large stone fort that had once served as a military station. It had been intensively renovated two years before, when the overcrowding of prisons had reached such a critical level that the choice had been between preparing a new facility or releasing inmates from old ones. Now the refurbished fort housed three hundred men.

  Pushing himself up from the floor, Derek slipped into the desk chair. He read Sabrina’s letter again, then placed it on the desk and mopped his face with the towel that hung around his neck.

  He hated writing, hated it with a passion. But he’d do it, if only to make sure Sabrina would write back.

  Dragging a yellow legal pad from one side of the desk, he picked up his pen and scrawled, “Dear Sabrina. Thank you very much for the letter. I enjoyed receiving—”

  He tore off the sheet of paper, compacted it in one hand and lobbed it into the wastebasket. Too stiff and formal. Sabrina would think he had a textbook in his lap.

  Drawing the pad closer, he tried again. “Dear Sabrina. Thanks for the letter. I’m glad to hear someone’s doing exciting things—”

  He tore off the sheet of paper, crushed it, dunked it. Sabrina didn’t deserve sarcasm.

  He hated writing letters. Hated it.

  Taking a deep breath, he gave it another shot. “Dear Sabrina. Guess where I am?” Brilliant, McGill. Just brilliant. He crumpled the paper in disgust.

  Then he closed his eyes and pictured Sabrina sitting by his side holding his hand. He imagined the softness of her eyes and the non-judgmental way she looked at him, the sweet curve of her mouth as it gave him encouragement, and her ever-present, ever-pleasant jasmine scent.

  Opening his eyes, he wrote as he might have talked. “Dear Sabrina. I hate writing. I’ve already told you that, I know, but I do hate it. When I was a kid it was the discipline that killed me. Now, it’s not so much the discipline as the solitariness of the activity. I’m writing because I can’t see you, and that hurts.

  “I miss you.”

  He looked at those three words, considered underlining them or writing them a second time for emphasis, then decided that he didn’t want to sound like a sissy. Perish the day.

  “Derek McGill is alive and well and living in—they won’t let me tell you where, but it’s not so far away that I can’t look at the stars and imagine your looking at the same ones at the same time.”

  This time when he looked at the words he’d written, he was a bit astonished. Had he actually written something poet
ic? On occasion he’d thought things poetic or said things poetic, but he’d never written them. Was it that he’d never had the time to do it? Or the patience?

  Standing half-apart from himself, he picked up the pen and wondered curiously what he’d write next.

  “Aside from the fact that we can’t visit, this place is an improvement over Parkersville. I’m in a wing reserved for special guests”—he smirked at that—“and though my cell is no bigger than the one I had before, it has a sink, the bed and desk are newer, the toilet flushes without spattering”—he couldn’t believe he’d written that, but he couldn’t erase the ink—“and the holes in the wall are natural, rather than man-made.

  “The best thing, though, is that there is a special contingent of guards in this wing and one of them runs. The higher-ups have agreed to let me go with him. I used to run at Parkersville, but only around the prison yard and then listening to the jeering of the prison toughs. The path here is longer and more isolated.” He wanted to tell her that it circled the island and that the pulse of the tide swallowed up the sounds of the prison, but that would be giving hints that he’d be better not giving. So he went on to write, “The exercise feels good. It always does. Being outside beats push-ups in my cell any day.”

  Dropping the pen, he tore off the sheet, then flexed his fingers and scanned the page. His sixth-grade teacher had been right. He wrote like a doctor. At the time he’d been flattered, only later realizing what a slur it had been. Sabrina would be lucky to decipher his words.

  Determined to write more clearly, he picked up the pen and started at the top of the second sheet. “The loft in New York sounds perfect. I think you were right in taking it, and I wouldn’t worry about the time factor. If you’d waited, you might have lost your buyer. When will you be moving?

  “I also like the idea of a place in Vermont—but part of that’s because I’m a country boy from way back. I grew up in the city and I still have a place in the city, but the country is the first place I run when I need soothing. It sounds pretty good right about now.”