Nearly

by Deborah Raney

  “Beautiful, isn’t it?”

  “Oh, it is. But it’s almost spring!”

  “Apparently not.” He laughed. “Now wake up. I’ll be over to pick you up in forty-five minutes, so don’t you dare go back to sleep.”

  Silence.

  “Do you hear me, Claire? I’m not kidding. Claire?”

  His boyish tone was hard to resist. “Okay, okay,” she giggled, throwing back the quilts. “I’m up.”

  “Good girl.” And he hung up on her.

  By the time she heard his truck pull into the driveway, she was dressed in jeans and a thick turtleneck, her hair pulled back in a low ponytail. A fresh pot of coffee perfumed the kitchen. On tiptoe, she peeked out through the fanlight window in the front door and watched him jump out of the pickup and go back to steady an old-fashioned wooden sled that was propped in the back of the pickup.

  She ran out on the porch before he could ring the bell.

  “Hi! Are we going sledding?”

  “That’s the plan.” Grinning, he rubbed his knuckles on the top of her head like he might have with one of his little nieces.

  She reached up and reciprocated, making him laugh and duck out of reach.

  “There’s a great hill over in the band shell park.”

  “Sounds like fun. Do you want some coffee first? It’s already made.”

  “Do you have a thermos?”

  She nodded.

  “We could take it with us. It might be nice to have something hot to drink later on at the park.”

  “Good idea. I’ll go get it ready. Have you had breakfast?”

  He shook his head. “I’m not really a breakfast person. You?”

  “I had a piece of toast. That’ll get me through.”

  “Maybe we can go out for pancakes later on.”

  “Sounds great.”

  The park was spread with a powdery white quilt of snow feather-stitched with the footprints of early sledders who already crowded the slope. Claire followed Michael to the top of the rise and plopped cross-legged on the front of the sled.

  With hands on her shoulders he leaned above her and yelled over the din of shouts and laughter. “Ready?”

  “Ready!”

  With a grunt he gave the sled a shove and hopped on behind her, his long legs straddling her, his feet on the steering mechanism at the front of the sled. Claire had not been on a sled since she was a child, and the exhilaration of the ride caught her by surprise. She squealed and screamed as Michael steered clear of a huge dog chasing behind its master’s sled. He leaned heavily to the left, taking Claire with him as they tipped precariously on one runner. The sled finally righted itself midway down the slope.

  At the bottom of the hill stood a thick stand of fir trees, each needled branch drooping under a heavy load of fresh snow. Their sled had picked up speed and Claire saw that they were heading swiftly for the hedge of evergreens.

  “Michael!” she screamed. “Michael Meredith, stop this sled this minute!”

  “I can’t find the brakes!” he shouted back, laughing.

  As the hill leveled out, the sled slowed to a coast, but not before they'd crashed underneath the lowest snow-draped branches of a huge fir. Like a slingshot, the branches sprang back releasing their ammunition of wet snow.

  Claire screamed again as the cold powder fell on her head. Michael was not immune to the onslaught, either. Jumping off the sled and stomping on the ground in an effort to shake off the snow, Claire caught a glimpse of him through wet eyelashes. Snow clung in wet clumps to his head, giving him the very undistinguished look of a blue-jeaned English courtier, complete with powdered wig.

  She collapsed on the ground in laughter while he bent at the waist and tried to dust the wet stuff out of his hair.

  “Very funny.” He smiled down at her as she lay on the ground, trying to catch her breath between giggles.

  He pounced on her then and force-fed her a snowball. Squealing, she struggled to her feet and fled across the field to the protection of the band shell that towered at one end of the park. He followed in hot pursuit, but when she reached the shelter and dared to look behind her, she saw that he'd taken a detour to his truck.

  She climbed up on the low stage and, after dusting the remaining snow off her clothing, huddled against the wall of the old band shell. The plastered walls were cracked and the sky blue paint was peeling off in large patches. As far as Claire knew, the bandstand had not been used for years by anyone other than starstruck little girls pretending to be movie stars on summer afternoons. Now it provided shelter from the wind and dry ground on which to sit.

  A few minutes later, Michael strode toward her bearing an old wool army blanket, the thermos of coffee, and two styrofoam cups.

  “A peace offering,” he intoned with a gleam in his eye. He poured a cup of the amber liquid and held it out to her.

  The steam rose invitingly in the brisk air. She held the cup close to her lips, letting its warmth thaw her hands and face before she took a sip.

  Michael then spread the blanket out on the concrete floor, and they sat in amiable silence, leaning against the back of the band shell. The pale blue cave of the bandstand reflected the sunlight and warmed their faces.

  “Mmm,” Claire sighed lazily as she drained her second cup of coffee. “I think I could almost fall asleep here.” Yawning, she gave him a sardonic sidewise glance and added, “Somebody—not to mention any names—got me up just a tad bit too early this morning.”

  “Come here…” He smiled and held out an arm for her to snuggle against.

  She scooted along the wall until she was in the circle of his arm and leaned her head on his shoulder. Where she belonged. By his side.

  They sat that way for a long time, laughing over the antics of sledders in the distance, talking quietly, enjoying each other’s company.

  Finally Michael looked at his watch. “Are you hungry? It’s almost two o’clock!”

  “No wonder my stomach is growling!”

  “Still want pancakes?”

  “Sure. Sounds great.”

  He pulled her to her feet and they walked arm in arm to the truck.

  After a leisurely afternoon “breakfast” at a popular truck stop on the highway just outside town, Michael talked Claire into another round of sledding. Back at the park—after Claire made him cross his heart and hope to die that they would not run into the snow-capped evergreens again—they spent the afternoon on the hill sledding.

  A group of Claire’s third-graders showed up late in the day, and she introduced them to “Mr. Meredith.”

  Hands on hips, little Brianne Sizemore and Mimi Harrold watched Michael haul Claire up by the hands after a spill. Brianne eyed them suspiciously. “Are you guys married?”

  Claire blushed and saw Michael’s head cocked in amusement, waiting to see how she would answer.

  She cleared her throat. “No, Brianne, we’re just good friends.”

  The children attached themselves to Claire and Michael for the remainder of the afternoon, and she was surprised to see his winning way with her students. She watched with amusement as Brianne stared at Michael with a lovesick expression on her pudgy face. And she laughed uproariously when a couple of the young boys piloted a sled with Michael aboard into the same trees he'd steered her under that morning.

  By the end of the afternoon they were soaked to their skin, hungry, and exhausted. But Claire decided it had been the most wonderful day of her life.

  The children began to straggle home for supper, and she and Michael loaded the sled into the bed of the pickup and walked back to the band shell, neither wanting the day to be over.

  They sat down on the floor of the stage where they'd sat that morning, and Michael put his arm around her.

  “Are you warm enough? Maybe I should get you home so you can get into some dry clothes.”

  She was cold, but not cold enough to risk ending their day together. She shook her head and snuggled closer. “I’m fine . . . reall
y.”

  They spoke quietly, daring to voice the new emotions they both were feeling.

  “Maybe it’s because you had a lonely childhood, too,” he told her, “but I… I’ve never known anyone who seemed to understand the hurts of my past the way you do, Claire. And to understand without pitying me. I feel like I’ve known you forever. I don’t know why that is, but I like it. I’ve never wanted anyone to know me so well before. But with you, I find myself wanting to tell you everything. I want to trust you with all my secrets.”

  She gave him a little smile and, unexpectedly, her eyes filled with tears.

  “Are you crying?” He sounded amused.

  She shrugged, embarrassed. “I can’t help it. Oh, Michael, I feel the same way about you. What . . . what does that mean?”

  He smiled and swiped at a tear on her cheek with a gloved finger. “I have a couple ideas.”

  “Tell me,” she risked.

  He pulled her closer and bent to look into her eyes. “Claire, for a long time now, I’ve been praying that God would put someone in my life. Someone who would understand what my life has been and love me anyway. Someone I could love who would love me unconditionally in return. Maybe it’s too soon to be saying this, but I’m beginning to believe you are the answer to those prayers, Claire. And I’ll tell you what else…”

  The mischievous close-mouthed grin that she was beginning to know so well played on his lips, and she waited in suspense for him to finish his sentence.

  “I really underestimated God,” he finally said, looking her over appreciatively and breaking into a wide smile.

  She laughed with joy at the compliment. “Oh, Michael. I hope you’re right. I hope this was meant to be.”

  He took her face in his hands and looked into her eyes. His voice was low and earnest as he told her, “I think I just might be in love with you, Claire Anderson.”

  “Michael, I… I think I’m falling in love with you, too.”

  Her heart soared with joy as he held her close to him, kissing her hair, tenderly tracing the contours of her face with one slender finger.

  In a way, she hadn’t been completely honest with him. She didn’t just think she loved him. She knew it. Knew it now as certainly as she'd ever known anything in her life.

  He tightened his arm around her. “I could get used to this, Claire.”

  “This has been such a great day, Michael. I feel like I’m dreaming. It… it almost scares me.” He pulled back to look at her face, and she read surprise in his expression.

  “Why does it scare you?”

  “I don’t know. It’s just that. . . I wonder if maybe my parents felt this happy together at one time in their lives. And look how that turned out.”

  She told him then of her fears that she might somehow be susceptible to the depression that had plagued her mother.

  He sympathized, but he told her, “You’re forgetting one important thing, Claire. From what you’ve told me, your parents didn’t have a strong faith to get them through the tough parts.”

  Not wanting to spoil the day with too-serious talk, she kept her tone light. “You’re right, of course. Come to think of it, are you ever wrong, Mr. Meredith?”

  “Well, let’s see. I think there was one time back in 1985. . . .”

  “Were you even born then?” She punched him playfully in the chest. They wrestled affectionately and he pulled her to her feet and led her to the front of the stage where the last patch of winter sunlight warmed the concrete. They plopped down and sat there together dangling their feet over the edge.

  “No, I’m serious, Michael. You seem to…”—she shook her head—“I don’t know . . . you seem to have it all together. For everything you’ve been through, you’re so confident about everything now. I don’t know. Maybe it’s because of all you’ve been through?”

  “Claire…” His tone scolded. “I do not have it all together. I have insecurities, and I have doubts. It scares me a little for you to think that I don’t. I am human, after all. You’ll eventually be disappointed if that’s what you think about me.” His voice had lost its teasing timbre.

  “Oh, I know you’re not perfect, Michael, but I envy your optimism, your faith that everything will always turn out right in the end.”

  “Yes, for me it has, Claire. But it was a long time coming. I don’t want to sound like a martyr, but I went through a lot of agony to get where I am today. Believe me, it was no picnic being tossed from home to home, wondering if this would be the one, if these would be the people who would finally want me.”

  “Well,” she said too lightly, “at least you always had a family along the way.”

  He stiffened and his expression changed abruptly.

  “Michael, I’m so sorry. I don’t know what made me say that. I . . .” She was close to tears, truly not knowing what had possessed her to make such an insensitive remark.

  For the first time in many weeks, the darkness clouded his face again. And seeing it, knowing she was the cause, a chill not borne of the winter air ran down her back. He narrowed his eyes and almost glared at her. And when he spoke, the coldness in his voice frightened her.

  “You don’t know what it was like, Claire, to be shuttled from house to house, family to family. Never knowing how long I’d be there, knowing that I wasn’t really a part of any family.”

  He took a deep breath. “I’ve never told you this, Claire. I’ve . . . I’ve wanted to forget it myself. But. . .”

  He paused and looked at her, his voice softening a bit. “I don’t want there to be any secrets between us, Claire. I want you to know everything about me—even the hard stuff.”

  “What, Michael? What is it?” She felt deeply ashamed of her flippant remark earlier. If only she could take it back. What other horrors could this man she loved have suffered? He had shared so many hurtful things from his childhood with her. What other dark secrets haunted him? She was truly frightened now, afraid to hear what he might tell her. Yet she was more afraid not to know.

  “Tell me, Michael,” she repeated, putting a hand gently on his back, coaxing him as she would one of her reticent third-graders.

  He stared straight ahead and his voice came out in a low monotone that she had to strain to hear.

  “Once . . . once, when I was seven or maybe eight—I’m not sure—a family in St. Louis adopted me. Legally adopted me. I was so excited, Claire, that I would finally belong somewhere . . . finally have someone to love me like a real son. It wasn’t like I thought it would be, though. They didn’t love me. I couldn’t seem to do anything right. They even hated my name and forced me to go by a different one. The woman—the mother—seemed to hate the sight of me. I don’t know why. I don’t remember much else, but I knew that place would never be home—even before . . . before they sent me away. They didn’t even tell me . . . not until the day SRS came to get me. They just packed my bags and stuffed me in the car and sent me back where I came from.”

  Her mind registered that Michael’s cheeks were wet, and a strange, incongruous thought crossed her mind. What if the tears freeze on his face? It was a thought designed to deny the dawning reality of what she’d just heard him say. Claire felt separated from the scene suddenly, as though she watched him from someplace above. And though he refused to look at her, seemingly attempting to hide his tears, he couldn’t hide his heaving shoulders or the guttural sob that escaped his throat.

  “I was there maybe a year and then they sent me away. Just like all the others. I didn’t think you could do that. I didn’t think you could adopt a kid and then just. . . just throw him away,” he spat out in a voice she didn’t recognize. Now he turned to look full into her face. “But they did it. They sent me away, Claire. I was so ashamed, as though I had done something terrible. I still feel it sometimes.…” He looked away, unable to go on.

  Claire felt dizzy, as though someone had cut off her oxygen supply. Shapes and colors swirled before her like colorful shards in a kaleidoscope: the flat geometric
shapes of the playground equipment, yellow-brown rectangles of grass where picnic tables had intercepted the snow, the blue arc of the band shell against a graying sky—all shifting and changing in front of her eyes.

  She longed to reach out to him, longed to soothe this deepest pain of his past. But as the awful truth washed over her, she was paralyzed, powerless to comfort him.

  Her voice finally came as through a tunnel, sounding hollow in her own ears. “Oh, Michael—oh, dear God . . . Michael . . . no! No! It . . . it can’t be!”

  And with terrible clarity, Claire heard her brother’s defiant voice, a wrenching echo from her childhood… My name is not Joseph! Stop calling me that! My name is Michael. It’s Michael… do you hear me? My name is Michael.

  She knew then—knew with certainty—that Michael Meredith was Joseph Anderson. The man she'd grown to love with the deepest part of her heart was a ghost from her past. No, more than a ghost: the very incarnation of the terrible secret that had haunted her.

  She slid off the stage and stumbled across the park toward the street. The late afternoon sun on the band shell, the warm glow of their growing love, the shelter of Michael’s arms—all evaporated, and she was overtaken by a biting cold that originated in her very bones.

  She ran blindly, clapping mittened hands over her ears as his confused questions rang after her.

  “Claire, wait! Come back. What’s wrong? What. . . ?”

  His cries were lost to the chill March air.

  Chapter 14

  Claire ran blindly in the direction of her house. Avoiding the main streets, she cut through alleys and side streets, praying she wouldn’t meet anyone. The evening shadows fell quickly, and by the time she reached her street, the sky was black with night. Her heart beat painfully in her ears, making her face feel swollen and hot. Some tiny, sane part of her knew she was running from a truth so awful that she wasn’t ready to hear it yet. Couldn’t hear it yet.