David told Julia about his travels but left out the reason he'd gone. "Then I woke up one morning in a hut in South Africa, being eaten alive by some insect I couldn't name, and decided it was time to come home."
A sadness filled Julia's eyes. "When I'm feeling generous, I tell myself it was a good thing that Evan didn't have to put up with the heat and insects and disease in the jungle all those years. But that doesn't happen very often.The selfish part of me would have him put up with anything."
"Third-world countries can get pretty rough for those of us used to four walls and indoor plumbing."
"How old were you when you quit traveling?"
"Twenty. I worked a few odd jobs in South Africa until I found a cargo ship headed the direction I wanted to go, with a captain willing to let me work for my keep." He'd landed in New York with only his journals and a change of clothes and a gnawing hunger for knowledge. Without a high-school diploma and less than fifteen dollars in his pocket, attending college like everyone else was out of the question. Instead, he'd audited classes that interested him, moving from campus to campus to find new voices, new ideas, new perspectives.
"I kept a journal," he said."I kept dozens, actually. I wrote every day. It was a way for me to vent and not scare the crap out of all the kids around me who thought a crisis was running out of beer money." David laughed. "I was a real firebrand back then, believing one person could effect change. I was convinced all I had to do was discover my voice."
"And did you?"Julia asked.
"In a way. I discovered Leaves of Grass and started writing longer and more intensely thought-out pieces." It was at his darkest moment that the essays took over his journals.
He experimented with the rhythm and cadence of sentences and paragraphs as if they were weapons, expressing his frustration at the self-absorbed society of the eighties with words written in staccato bursts.
"So, you're a poet?"
He laughed. "Not even close. Today's poets are all songwriters. I could no more do that than I could carry a tune. My writing is all over the place." The bulk of his fame and income had come from the anthologies put together from pieces he'd done for newspapers and magazines.
"I'm impressed."
"Don't be. Opinionated people who think what they say matters to anyone but themselves are as common as allergies nowadays. If you watch Sunday- morning television, it's filled with either self- proclaimed pundits or infomercials."
"So how did you go from journal keeping to published author?"
"A girl I knew had a contact." He'd met Cassidy in Boston during Christmas break.
Emancipated by a father no longer willing to support her college habit, she'd waited tables in an Italian restaurant that David had frequented, a place where the pasta was cheap and plentiful. They'd slept together the first night and moved in together the next day. With a background of wealth and privilege, she'd dealt with poverty as if it were a novelty, spending an entire paycheck on a dress that caught her eye in a store window and eating customers' leftovers at the restaurant the rest of the week.
When she discovered David's cache of essays, she automatically assumed he wrote because he wanted to be published. Her family owned a publishing company; she understood how these things worked. Secretly, to surprise him and spare him the pain of possible rejection—or so she told him later—she sent copies of his work to her father.
Not until her father called with an offer did she acknowledge she'd used David's work as a peace offering, seeking a way back into her family's good graces. Poverty's charm had worn thin.
At first David had been furious at what he considered a betrayal and then he'd become pragmatic. He'd never believed poverty had charm. Settling on the anonymity of a pseudonym, he signed a contract and turned his work over to an editor. He and Cassidy parted amicably. She met and married a lawyer and moved into an apartment overlooking Central Park. David bought an old Volkswagen bus and headed west.
A year later, after reading an advance copy of the book, a New York Times critic proclaimed "Nicolas Golden" the spokesman of his generation, coining the phrase, "The Man with the Golden Voice."
David hated every part of the sudden and explosive attention that followed. Some saw his refusal to give interviews as a marketing ploy. It wasn't, but it gave the slim book of essays and observations far more press than it would have received had David accepted the dozens and then hundreds of requests for an appearance. The momentum built until Flying on Clipped Wings became the book everyone felt the need to own but few actually read or understood.
"That's it?"Julia questioned. "You knew someone who knew someone and you were on your way?"
"Pretty much."
"Was the book successful?"
"More so than it deserved."
"Are you being modest or hypercritical?"
"Neither. As much as we'd all like to think we know what we're talking about when we're in our early twenties, it takes a few more years to gain the experience and maturity to do anything but rant."
"Did you make lots of money?"
He could see that while she was interested in his answers, her questions were directed in ways to keep him talking. She was lonely and afraid he was going to do what he'd done every other day—send her home with the excuse he had work to do. How could she know that she'd been the first thing he'd thought of when he'd woken up that morning, and that he'd lain there for a half hour, trying to figure out why.
What was so special about Julia McDonald that being with her made him think of possibilities over regrets?
"After being in a place where having twenty dollars left after I paid the rent made me rich, I felt like the guy digging a well hoping for water and striking oil," he told her. "I had no idea what to do with that kind of money."
Julia laughed."I hope you didn't tell people that."
"I did—in an interview I agreed to as a favor to another writer. I was young and dumb, and after the piece hit the stands, I wound up a target for every cause that could locate me. It took a couple of years to sort through who wanted money, who needed it and who deserved it."
"So you just gave it all away?"
"Not all." He still had far more than he could or would ever use.
"Is that why you took the caretaker job—because the writing hasn't been going well?"
She made a face. "Ouch. That's a little personal. Sorry."
He could let her believe he needed the money and be done with it. But she was the first person he'd talked to about his writing in years who didn't have a clue who he was, and it felt too good to let go that easily. Once someone realized that his writing had been quoted by presidents and popes, pundits and all manner of idiots, that the thoughts and arguments he'd presented on some obscure radio talk shows were used by politicians on both sides of the aisle to make points he'd never intended, a wall went up. He became Nicolas Golden, someone too important to talk to about life's ordinary vagaries and complaints. In the end he'd ended up so isolated and insulated that the fire in his belly was extinguished by the champagne of his existence.
How should he answer her? He looked at her. Not a glance, but a steady, full-on look.
He realized with a start that he cared what she thought. When had this happened? How?
More important, why? "I took the job to see if there was anything left of the man I once was. I've been hiding behind distractions for too many years, using them as excuses for work that was mediocre at best. Here it's me and the computer."
"Put up or shut up," she said.
"Succinct but accurate."
"And?"
Yesterday he'd been ready to pack it in. Today something kept him from admitting defeat. At least, out loud. And especially to Julia."I'm still working on it."
It was her turn to raise her coffee cup in salute. "Here's to both of us finding our way."
David started to return the gesture, when a flash of white caught his eye. "Well, would you look at that," he whispered.
Juli
a let out a small cry of wonder. Half-hidden by the trunk of a massive pine, Pearl stared back, a tiny, squirming, black-and-white puppy nestled between her front paws.
Six Months and Two Days Missing
California, land of palm trees, sandy beaches, balmy breezes, the world's finest wines, Yosemite and Disneyland. We'd seen enough ads every winter showing Kansas buried in six-foot snowdrifts and Californians basking in the sun that we never doubted what we would find—beaches connected to spectacular mountains.
How could two people who'd graduated college with honors be so dumb? How had we missed questioning what was in that vast Sacramento Valley, which separated the ocean and the mountains? What were we thinking?
Whatever it was, reality rolled out a 110-degree welcome mat on that blindingly bright, cloudless Fourth of July day when we dropped out of the Sierra Nevada and into our new home, Sacramento. The city was huge; the surrounding countryside, as flat as home. Traffic was terrifying: mile after mile of race-car drivers merging on and off the freeway, while I sat white knuckled, convinced our Kansas plates made us some kind of target. I was ready to turn around and go home the minute I got out of the car at the service station, accidentally touched the fender and burned myself. I was positive you felt the same way and were somewhere between crying and screaming, but you came back from asking directions, grinning from ear to ear.
"The motel is around the corner," you said. "We must have driven right past it.
"You planted a kiss on my sweaty nose. "And wait until you hear this. All we have to do is stand outside our door tonight and we'll have a front-row seat for a huge fireworks display."
I didn't say anything. It wasn't that your enthusiasm was contagious. I just didn't have the heart to stick a pin in your balloon. I figured you had to remove those rose-colored glasses eventually, if only to wipe off the smog.
But you didn't. You loved everything about California, and slowly, without being consciously aware of it happening, I did, too. Barbara arrived for a visit and fell in love with the guy in the apartment next door. Mom was beside herself that another daughter was leaving and cried all the way through the wedding. She half-jokingly threatened Fred with bodily harm if he even thought about leaving Kansas. He applied for a job at UCLA the next year.
If your job with Stephens Engineering planted our feet in California soil, Jason became the cement that bound us here. Created the night you greeted me in the bedroom wearing nothing but the ridiculous, heart-covered briefs I'd gotten you for Valentine's Day and a rose tucked between your teeth, Jason was the first generation of my family born outside Kansas in a hundred years.
My mother couldn't stop crying the day he was born, reinforcing her reputation as the family weeper.
She'd tried to talk me into coming "home" for Jason's birth, but I knew how important it was for you to start our own traditions. I managed to resist her, even though it was something I'd secretly wanted, too.
You've always been so wonderful with my mother, understanding and funny, calling her without my prompting to include her in the milestones of Shelly's and Jason's lives and sending enough pictures to wallpaper every room in her house. You voluntarily put your dreams of traveling on hold so that we could spend vacations on the farm. I haven't told you often enough how much that meant to me. I'm sorry. I promise I'll tell you every day when you're home again.
And I'll tell you that I love you, over and over again, so often that it will echo in your mind when you 're sleeping.
I do it now.
Can you hear me?
C H A P T E R 1 0
Silent tears slid down Julia's cheeks when she saw Pearl's torn ear and the blood on her coat. She'd coaxed her into moving closer with food and soft words while David gathered blankets and stuffed them under the porch for a makeshift den. David left a trail of dog treats to entice her toward the house, then stood at a distance to give her time to explore.
"How badly do you think she's hurt?"Julia whispered.
"I'm hoping it's just the ear," David said. "Her throat and belly seem okay—or at least, what I could see of them. Even a coyote would have trouble getting through all that hair on her back."
Pearl gave them a wary glance before she left her puppy on the ground by the steps and crawled under the porch to look around. She stayed long enough that Julia hoped it had won her approval, but just as Julia's hopes rose, Pearl came out and picked up the puppy and turned away. She circled the house, climbed onto the porch and moved inside the house.
Julia looked at David, her mouth open in surprise. "What do you suppose she's doing in there?"
David shoved his hands in his back pockets. "I'm not sure."
They waited.. .and waited. And waited. Finally, Pearl returned—without her puppy.
She headed across the opening and into the forest without a backward glance.
"She must have more puppies," Julia said.
David touched the small of her back and gave her a nudge. "Let's see where she left the first one before she gets back."
They found it in the closet in David's bedroom, curled up on a pile of dirty clothes.
Julia looked closer at the plump, squirming ball of black-and- white fur. "It's a girl," she said. "Her eyes are open."
"Then she's more than two weeks old."
"How do you know that?"
"I worked in a shelter for a couple of months when I was in Utah. Most of the puppies' eyes opened sometime between ten and fifteen days."
He moved past her to adjust the clothing into a
flatter, broader surface, giving Pearl more room to lie down when she returned. "She's either decided to trust me or I'm her port in a storm of coyotes."
Pearl was back in less than ten minutes, another puppy in her mouth. Julia saw right away that there was something wrong with this one. The right back leg was stiff and swollen and the puppy was more limp than relaxed in Pearl's mouth.
Julia and David had decided not to wait on the porch, where Pearl would have to walk between them to get into the house. Instead, they sat on chairs in the living room, reminding the dog that she was sharing her den and letting her know that it was safe to be around them.
Pearl stood in the middle of the room, glanced at the doorway into the bedroom and then back again at Julia. She made a muted crying noise before she crossed the room and laid the puppy at Julia's feet. "What do I do now?"Julia asked David.
"Go with your instinct."
Julia peered into Pearl's eyes. She talked to her, soft words of encouragement, words from one mother to another. She put her hand on Pearl's muzzle and then her head, careful not to touch her ear. Instead of picking up the puppy, Julia lowered herself to sit beside it. Unlike its sister, this one didn't respond when she put her hand on its side. "It's a boy," Julia said. "He has a wound on his leg and it appears really nasty."
Pearl nosed the puppy closer to Julia. "I know this sounds crazy, but I think she wants me to help him."
David handed her the fleece blanket draped over the back of the sofa and reached for the phone. "I'll call the vet and tell him we're bringing him in."
"I'll do it," she said."You stay here so Pearl doesn't think we've conspired to steal her puppy. We don't want her to take off and disappear again. Not now."
Julia wasn't clear of the driveway, before she decided the puppy should have a name.
"How does Rufus sound?" she asked him. She waited for a reaction."No? Then how about Spot for that really cute spot between your eyes?" Again no reaction. This time she put her finger on his side to make sure he was still breathing. She let out a small cry of relief when she felt his tiny chest move up and down. She really, really didn't want him to die. She needed to win this one.
"Okay, so you're not crazy about the standard stuff. How about Francis? That's a good solid name that you don't run into very often. You can bet there won't be a lot of dogs at the dog park turning to look when your person calls that name."
He maneuvered to lift his head. It teeter
ed upright for several seconds before falling to the side. That was indication enough for her. "Okay, Francis it is."
Julia touched his chin. Francis captured her little finger, took it in his mouth and sucked hard. "Good boy," she said, heartened at his strength and the cry of protest that followed when he discovered her finger wasn't what he'd expected. He was stronger than he appeared. "Hang in there, Francis. Help is only a half hour away."
Julia made it in twenty minutes. There were six people in the waiting room. When the frazzled receptionist refused to let her go in first, Julia didn't bother arguing. Instead, she unwrapped Francis and showed him to everyone ahead of her. Five years of dealing with bureaucrats had taught her direct and effective ways to get what she wanted.
The vet, the same one she and David had talked to about Pearl, did a quick assessment and said, "It's a good thing you brought him here right away. This little guy is in pretty bad shape."
"How bad?" Julia asked.
"The leg isn't broken, but he could still lose it if we can't get the infection under control." He continued to manipulate Francis's leg as he talked. "And there's no guarantee that amputation would work. How hard do you want me to try to save him?"
"Can he function with three legs?"
"Very well."
"Then I want you to do whatever it takes." She scooped Francis off the table and into her arms to keep him warm in the overly air-conditioned room. He responded by snuggling against her and nosing the inside of her elbow. She knew she should give him to the vet, but wasn't ready to let go. "What do you think happened to him?"
"It looks like a bite," he said. Then added, "Probably coyote." That confirmed what she and David had already guessed."She was probably bringing him back to her own pups for lunch. I'm surprised this little guy's mom managed to rescue him."
"I'm going to need something for his mom, too. She has a pretty mangled ear."
If I'd Never Known Your Love Page 12
