Nearly

by Deborah Raney

  Impulsively, he went back to the file cabinet, unlocked it, and once again removed the file in question. Tucking the folder into his briefcase, he headed for the parking lot.

  He drove the few blocks to his apartment over streets slick with the powder of the season’s first snowfall. Deep in thought, he parked the truck in front of his building. As he gathered his briefcase and gloves and started to get out, he noticed the young couple who lived in the apartment next to his unloading groceries from the trunk of their car.

  He stepped down from the pickup and slammed the door, tucking his briefcase under one arm.

  “Hi, Brett, Alicia. Can I give you a hand there?”

  “Hey, good timing, old buddy. You bet.” Brett McGinn unloaded two bulging grocery bags into Michael’s free arm and went back to the car for the last two bags.

  “Thanks, Michael.” Alicia McGinn flashed him her sweet smile. “How have you been? Haven’t seen you for a while.”

  “Oh, I’ve been around. Working late, though. I’m pretty swamped at the office. How are you guys?”

  “Doing great,” she answered as her husband unlocked the door to their apartment and led the way through the narrow entry to the kitchen.

  “Especially great now that the cupboards will be full,” Brett chimed, putting the groceries on the counter and tweaking his wife’s cheek affectionately.

  “Yeah, and two days from now you’ll have eaten everything not tied down,” she lamented cheerfully.

  Brett rubbed his stomach and began rummaging through the bags. He pulled out a package of cookies. “Well, let’s get started.” He tore open the package, stuffed two Oreos in his mouth, and offered the bag to Michael.

  “Oh, you . . . you’re impossible!” Alicia punched Brett’s arm playfully.

  Michael waved away the proffered cookies and observed the newlyweds with a mixture of wistfulness and melancholy. The obvious joy they took in each other’s company was a delight to watch, and yet it was as though he was no longer in the room. They had eyes only for each other. He couldn’t help but wonder if he would ever be part of such a relationship himself. He hoped his future included the love of a wife and children, but well into his twenty-ninth year, he was beginning to fear he might always be alone. Now, watching the newly married couple, he deeply envied the warm camaraderie they shared—the way each so obviously belonged to the other.

  Even the McGinns’ meagerly furnished apartment was warm and cozy in contrast to his own. The kitchen bore the unmistakable signs of a woman’s touch: ruffled curtains at the window, an artfully arranged basket of fruit, flowers on the table. The very air held a feminine fragrance.

  Looking for a graceful exit, he deliberately repositioned the bag of groceries he'd carried in. “Well, see you guys around.”

  “Bye, Michael,” Alicia called over her shoulder as she began to put boxes and cans into the cupboards. “Thanks again.”

  “No problem.” He backed out of the kitchen, suddenly feeling like an intruder.

  His own apartment was dark and chilly when he let himself in a few minutes later. He turned the thermostat up a notch and switched on the television set as he walked through the living room on his way back to the bedroom to change out of his suit and tie.

  Comfortable in jeans and a ragged sweatshirt, he went back to the living room and plopped into the recliner in front of the TV. He flipped absentmindedly through the channels. Nothing really interested him, but maybe the noise would keep him company and keep his mind from brooding dark thoughts.

  In spite of himself, he found his thoughts on the McGinns and the happiness they seemed to have found with each other. Once—it seemed a very long time ago—he’d thought he'd found that kind of love.

  Her name was Michelle. He met her in college and uncharacteristically asked her out the day his roommate introduced them. They went ice-skating and he fell for her almost immediately. She was pretty and fun and caring—and she shared his newfound faith in God.

  They dated that whole semester and he fell more in love with her each day. He had been so sure she felt the same about him, so sure she was the one. Though he never told her, he'd planned to ask her to marry him—the very night she told him she would like to date others. As it turned out, she had a particular “other” in mind: a long-time boyfriend from her high school days. The last Michael had heard, Michelle had married her old beau and they were happy together, living somewhere on the West Coast.

  He had been a little gun-shy since then. He had had the occasional date, but never had he fallen for someone the way he had for Michelle. Looking back, he knew it was for the best she'd broken things off when she did. He was a wonderful man, she'd told him, but she realized now she'd always loved Chris. She was sorry, but she knew he would find someone new and then he’d realize she was right.

  It’d hurt, but he was a survivor. He was long over Michelle, rarely thinking about her except to acknowledge he'd known a little of what love could be—enough that he knew he longed to find it again, longed to have it returned. But the prospects in a small town like Hanover Falls were slim. He had met the new third-grade teacher, Claire Anderson, and had to admit he was attracted to her. She seemed quiet, even shy. He had always liked that in a girl. Maybe he would give her a call . . . perhaps when things settled down at the office a bit.

  The worries about his job surfaced again as he thought of Riverview. He had only recently begun to feel confident in his job as administrator of the Riverview Manor complex. When he'd been thrust into the position just over a year ago, it had been a stressful adjustment. Complicating matters was the fact that the woman who had been hired as his assistant was as green as he was. Beth VanMeter had been employed as a social worker for the county Social and Rehabilitation Services for a year before coming to Riverview. An ambitious young woman, she was now beginning the master’s program at SLU in St. Louis and was away from her office at Riverview more than she was there.

  Besides the various departments in the nursing-care center, Riverview encompassed the assisted-living wing and the separate retirement homes and apartments. Beth VanMeter worked more closely with the nursing home, while Michael’s main responsibility was for the apartments and the assisted-living unit. But with Beth gone much of the time, he'd been called upon more and more to troubleshoot problems in the nursing-care center. The additional headaches brought about by the ongoing construction of the new senior center and the necessary fund-raising had nearly been the straw that broke the camel’s back for Michael.

  Then gradually, over the past couple months, things had finally begun to fall into place. With much trial and error, he was learning the intricacies of the system and was finally becoming comfortable in his role as administrator. He had just begun to feel he could catch his breath. And now…

  Deliberately, he pushed aside the disquieting thoughts about his job.

  He went into the kitchen and rummaged in the refrigerator. After fixing a sandwich and pouring a tall glass of milk, he took the light supper into the living room. A police drama caught his attention and slowly the complex plot of the program drew him in, making him forget, for tonight at least, the lonely feelings his encounter with the McGinns had dredged up—and his deepening concerns about the file in his briefcase.

  Chapter 5

  The winter’s first snowstorm seemed determined to make an impression. By Thursday night five inches of snow had fallen, and all the schools in the area were closed again. On Friday morning, though the ground was still blanketed, the sun came out, turning the fields and village into mounds of diamonds that sparkled against an ice blue sky.

  School resumed on Friday, but again the children were so enchanted with the newness of this early advent of winter that Claire felt the week had been nearly wasted—at least as far as academics were concerned. For the first time during the school year, she assigned the children homework. Their groans and good-natured grumbling rang in her ears as she gathered her things and headed for home the afternoon.


  She was in the middle of fixing herself a sandwich for supper when her phone rang. She hurriedly wiped mayonnaise off her fingers and unplugged her phone from the charger. She didn’t recognized the number. “Hello?”

  “Claire, this is Michael Meredith. We visited at the Happy Chef Wednesday?” He spoke it like a question, as though she wouldn’t remember talking with him only two days ago.

  “Yes, of course. How are you?”

  “I’m fine, thanks. Listen, I was wondering if you might like to go to dinner with me some night this weekend. We could take in a movie afterward if you like or . . .” He let the question hang in the air.

  Her palms began to perspire. Willing her voice not to give away her eagerness, she answered with what she hoped sounded like mild indifference. “That would be nice.” It was a bit easier to pull off when she wasn’t looking into those smoldering eyes of his.

  “It might be kind of short notice, but”—he cleared his throat—“would tomorrow night be all right? Say about six o’clock?”

  “I think that would work. Do you know where I live?”

  “As a matter of fact, I do. Mrs. Overman—Millie—has all but drawn me a map to her house…her old house…and I remember you told me you were renting from her. Brookside Drive, right?” There was a smile in his voice.

  “I forgot you have connections with my landlady.”

  He laughed. “Oh yes . . . she’s quite the character.”

  “I’d have to agree with you on that.”

  “I’ll see you tomorrow night then?”

  “Six o’clock—I’ll be ready.”

  Claire had dated a few guys in high school and a few more in college. It was a ritual she was not altogether comfortable with, and one that now seemed a bit adolescent for a woman nearing twenty-six. Yet she was definitely interested in getting to know Michael Meredith better.

  She tossed and turned that night, but it was a refreshing change to lie awake agonizing over what she should wear to dinner and a movie with a decidedly hot guy, rather than lying in bed trying to shut out the all too-familiar nightmares.

  At exactly six o’clock Saturday evening, a dark green pickup truck pulled into her driveway. Taking a deep breath, she answered the doorbell and ushered Michael into the living room. She was relieved to see that her choice of jeans and sweater had been just right. He was dressed casually—khaki pants and a navy shirt. He waited by the door while she gathered her coat and purse.

  Outside he offered his arm and helped her navigate the icy sidewalk and driveway. He opened the door on the passenger side for her and she climbed in.

  “I guess this isn’t exactly the perfect vehicle for taking a lady out to dinner,” he began, “but actually . . . it’s the only vehicle I’ve got,” he finished lamely.

  “I think it’s a pretty truck.” The pickup was spotlessly clean inside and waxed to a shine on the outside except where it had been newly splattered by the salty slush from the highway.

  He laughed. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard my truck described as pretty before.”

  “You obviously haven’t seen my clunker then. Let’s just say I’m not picky about vehicles.” She drove a little Toyota that had rolled over a hundred thousand miles long before she bought it.

  “Well, that’s a good thing.” As he backed out of the driveway he told her, “I thought we’d drive to Boyd City if that’s okay. There’s a nice Italian place there…if you like Italian?”

  “Sounds delicious. I’m hungry.”

  “Good. And hopefully Boyd City will have more to choose from than Frozen and Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles in the movie department.”

  She laughed. Those were, in fact, the only two movies playing at Hanover Falls’s tiny outdated theater.

  Michael turned the truck onto the highway, and they drove the forty minutes to Boyd City, talking animatedly about movies they’d seen and books they’d read. All her worries about what they would say to each other were quickly forgotten.

  After they were seated in the crowded but quiet restaurant and the waitress had taken their orders, the conversation turned to their respective jobs.

  “I’ve only been administrator for a little over a year,” Michael told Claire. “I was an assistant for ten months before that. I was offered the administrator’s position just before the corporation made the decision to develop the land. That project includes the complex where Millie lives and the new senior center.”

  “What an undertaking,” Claire breathed. “That sounds scary.”

  “Believe me, it was scary. I was flattered by the promotion, of course,” Michael told her. “I was still working on my masters at the time, pretty much inexperienced in this field. But I probably never would have taken the job if I’d known then what it would turn into. Mr. Stoddard, the previous administrator, moved to Texas just weeks after he announced his retirement, and I was left pretty much on my own. It’s been a challenge.”

  He ran a hand through his hair, and a look of frustration crossed his face. “It can be a real headache at times,” Michael continued, “especially the financial end of things. In some ways I’m still learning the ropes, but for the most part it’s been very rewarding to be part of this organization. I feel very blessed to have come on board when I did. It was an answer to prayer for me.”

  It was the first time Michael had made reference to his faith.

  “You’re a Christian?” she asked, not feeling the least bit awkward posing the question.

  “Yes. Since I was in college. And you?”

  She nodded. “My parents never attended church, but my grandmother took me to her church whenever I visited her. She shared her faith with me every chance she got. But I didn’t really make it my own until I was seventeen. I sometimes think I still have a lot to learn, a lot to overcome—” She stopped short, afraid she'd revealed more than she wanted to explain.

  “Oh, well,” he said almost apologetically, “I think we all have a lot to learn. We don’t become saints overnight.”

  Their plates had been cleared away and they were enjoying second cups of coffee when Michael looked at his watch and took in a sharp breath. “Uh-oh, if we’re going to make a movie we’d better get going. Did you want more coffee?”

  She held a hand over the empty mug in answer. “I’ve had my limit for the week,” she said wryly.

  Michael then helped her into her coat, and they tromped across the snowy parking lot to the truck.

  The movie they decided on was a remake of an old western. Claire had always enjoyed westerns, but this version, despite being rated PG-13, was too violent—and explicit—for her taste.

  On the way back to Hanover Falls they talked about the film, and Michael apologized for its graphic nature. “They just don’t make them like they used to, do they? They don’t leave anything to the imagination anymore,” he sighed.

  “That’s for sure. But don’t apologize. It’s certainly not your fault—unless you’re hiding the fact that you moonlight as a movie producer.”

  He laughed. “You know,” he told her, a faraway look coming suddenly into his eyes, “sometimes I wonder what my grandparents would think if they could come back and see some of the things we just take for granted nowadays. The bad things, I mean.”

  “You must have been really close to your grandparents.”

  He nodded. “They were the finest people I’ve ever known.”

  “Are you close to your parents?” she wondered.

  He hesitated for the slightest moment. “Yes. My parents are wonderful, too. My grandparents were missionaries to Brazil for most of their lives. My mom was raised there, in fact—in Brazil. When Grandma and Grandpa finally retired, they came to live with us. I’m not sure they knew it at the time, but they had a pretty good mission field in me.”

  “You were quite the rebel, huh?” she teased.

  But his reply was serious. “I was a rebel of the worst kind. I . . . Well, maybe I’ll tell you about it sometime. For another night�
�”

  Claire couldn’t see his face in the darkness of the truck’s cab, but he became deathly quiet, and she wasn’t sure how to respond. Finally he broke the silence. Claire could sense by the tremor in his voice and the detached tone of his words—almost as though he were talking to himself—that what he was telling her was important to him.

  “My grandparents meant the world to me, Claire. They are the reason I am where I am today. I just hope I can give back to my residents at the manor—listen to me…” He chuckled, interrupting himself. “My residents. Anyway, I just hope I can return a tiny part of the love and encouragement Grandma and Grandpa—and Mom and Dad, too—gave me. Because I wouldn’t be here today if it wasn’t for them. Literally. . .”

  His voice trailed off and Claire waited, curious, for him to explain. But he kept silent, and for some reason she was afraid to ask him what he'd meant.

  They drove several miles in silence. Then, as though he suddenly remembered she was sitting beside him, he asked politely, “So what about your family? Where did you grow up?”

  “Kansas City mostly. Except for kindergarten, all of my school years were spent there. My parents aren’t living. My mom died when I was in high school, and Dad passed away about five years ago.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said softly.

  She waved his sympathy off.

  “I was born in St. Louis,” she went on, too cheerfully, wanting to change the subject. “We lived there until I was about six. Everyone is always saying it’s such a nice city, but I really don’t remember much about it. And I’ve only been back once or twice since we moved away.”

  He fell silent again.

  Trying to draw him out, she asked, “Have you ever been there—to St. Louis?”

  “Yes. I actually lived there for a while.”

  “Really? What part?”

  “I really don’t remember. I was just a kid. And it wasn’t for long.” His answer was strangely abrupt and he turned away from her to concentrate on the road in front of him.