Remember the Time

by Annette Reynolds

  He abruptly stood. “Out.”

  “Out where?”

  “I was with a friend.”

  “Male or female?”

  “Why do you care?”

  Kate tried to pull off a nonchalant shrug. It didn’t come across very well. “Is it okay if I take a shower, warden?” she asked sarcastically.

  “Be my guest.”

  “Gee, thanks. Maybe you’d like to stand guard at the door?” Bracing herself against the arm of the sofa, she slowly stood to face him, her eyes sending out a familiar “I dare you” signal.

  The two of them had sparked off each other from the beginning. She had fallen in love with Paul, and that had been a different kind of fire. But she and Mike had more in common. Their likes and dislikes and ideas ran on a parallel plane, and when one of them crossed that line, their debates lasted for hours—days. Paul would sit and listen, amazed that the two of them could go on for so long about a question like: Who deserved the Oscar that year for best actor? Was Alfred Hitchcock the greatest director of all time or was he playing a joke on everyone? Did Anastasia die or was she really poor Anna Andersen who lived in nearby Charlottesville?

  Sometimes, the debate would span months. Paul and Kate would arrive home from San Francisco and Mike would show up the next weekend, plunk down a stack of books, and begin citing passages to prove a point he’d been trying to make back in February. Neither would back down. They simply called a truce and went on to another, less incendiary, topic.

  Mike and Kate sparred and parried and lit small fires that could be put out with a few well-chosen words. Maybe it was the Irish in both of them. Maybe it was something more.

  Paul was smart enough to stay out of the discussions. And he was smart enough to know that Kate needed them. There was a combative streak in her that was always questioning. Paul could hold his own with Kate or Mike, but it just didn’t mean that much to him to do so.

  Kate knew that Paul didn’t see much point in discussing the use of color in a Van Gogh, or a camera angle in a Hitchcock film, or the use of light and dark space in an Edward Weston print. To Paul, the things were there and done. What was there to talk about? This attitude became stronger as the years went on and Kate turned to Mike more and more for the mental games she loved to play. Twenty years down the road, they knew each other better than any married couple.

  Kate has read the same page three times before putting aside the book. Bored and depressed that Paul is back for only a three-day home stand, she sits staring out at the Bay. He has already left for the ballpark, and the only thing she has to look forward to is another cold, windy night at Candlestick Park. And then the phone rings, and it’s Mike, lifting her spirits.

  “Put on your red dress, mama, cause we’re goin’ out tonight.”

  “Mike!” She’s surprised and pleased. “When are you?”

  “At the moment I’m in a phone stall at the San Francisco airport. Can I come over and play?”

  “How soon can you get here?”

  When the doorbell rings Kate runs, flinging open the door, and throws her arms around Mike, crushing the flowers he’s brought her. Laughing, she pulls him inside, saying, “God, if you aren’t a sight for sore eyes!”

  “More likely just a sight.” He hands her the flowers. “I feel like I’ve been on a plane all my life.”

  “Let me get you something to drink.” She is moving toward the kitchen.

  “What I’d really love is a shower.”

  Kate is leaning against the wall next to the bathroom door that he’s left open a crack so they can talk.

  “What are you doing here?” she shouts over the rush of the water.

  “The Foundation for Architectural Heritage is having a fund-raiser. I was invited. And I could use a date.”

  “Tonight?”

  “Yeah. It’s at the Sir Francis Drake. Black tie. Got something tasteful, yet sexy, you’ve been dying to wear someplace?”

  “As a matter of fact, I do.”

  “Is that a yes?”

  “I’d love to go.”

  Mike smiles to himself and shuts off the water. Wrapping a bath towel around his waist, he steps out of the shower.

  “I’m tired of talking to this door,” Kate says. “Are you decent?”

  “In the immortal words of Kate Armstrong: ‘Never, come on in.’ ”

  Kate sits on the toilet lid and talks to him as he shaves. He can see her eyes on his profile as he looks in the mirror. He’s suddenly flustered.

  “So, what time is this affair?” she asks.

  “Cocktails at six. Dinner at seven,” he answers, marveling at her choice of words.

  “That only gives me an hour to get gorgeous.” She is looking at his chest now. “I never realized what great shape you’re in.”

  He shrugs, quickly rinsing the razor and wiping off his face.

  “Where are you staying?”

  “They booked me into the Sir Francis.”

  “Wrong. You’re staying here.” She stands, and as she walks past him, pinches a fold of the towel he is wearing. “Better watch out. One false move and all your secrets will be revealed.” She grins at him. “Let me show you where the guest room is.”

  Mike is standing at the living room window admiring the view.

  “Ta da!”

  He turns at the sound of Kate’s voice, and in a reverent voice, he says, “Holy Christ.”

  “You like?”

  The floor-length royal blue dress shimmers like liquid sapphires as she slowly turns around. The thousands of beads on the figure-hugging silk catch the light and send out small flashes of light. Long-sleeved, high-necked, it reveals nothing, and everything. She steps forward and he sees the slit up the left side.

  “And I was just going to comment on the view from the window,” he says, getting his voice back. She is looking at him strangely. “What?” he asks.

  “You could be on the cover of GQ.” Kate moves closer to him. “You look gorgeous.” She runs her hand down the lapel of his tux. “You are gorgeous.”

  “You just noticed?” he says lightly, trying to disguise his intense reaction to her nearness.

  He takes in her auburn hair casually piled on top of her head, held there with a rhinestone clip. He breathes in her perfume, and knows he has to move, or die from wanting her.

  “If you’re ready …?” Kate dangles the car keys in front of him.

  They are seated at a circular table, Kate on Mike’s left, finishing their dinner. Seated at the table with them is James Alderson, the head of the foundation, a congressman, a representative from the California Preservation Foundation, and their wives. They are all thrilled to be introduced to the wife of Paul Armstrong, a San Francisco legend at that point, and Kate sparkles for them.

  As the plates are being cleared, Mr. Alderson rises from his seat and walks to a podium that has been set up at the head of the banquet room. The string quartet that has been providing elegant background music stops playing, and the room grows quiet.

  “I want to thank you all for coming and supporting the Foundation for San Francisco’s Architectural Heritage. You’ll be happy to know that the money you’ve so generously contributed over the past year, and the three hundred dollars per plate tonight, has been put to good use. By the way, dessert is coming.” The two hundred-plus people in the room chuckle, as the head of the foundation goes on to report what has been accomplished. Then he pauses. “But we’re not here just to raise money. Tonight, the foundation would like to honor a man whose vision, expertise, and talent has done more for San Francisco preservation this past year than we could have possibly dreamed. I’d like to introduce the man behind CraftWork Incorporated, Michael James Fitzgerald.”

  As the applause begins, Kate stares at Mike, dumbfounded. He winks at her and makes his way to the podium to accept the award.

  “I can’t believe you knew this all along and didn’t tell me,” Kate chides him.

  They’ve gone up to the Starlite Roo
f to finish off the evening with brandy and dancing, and they now move to the haunting strains of “A Summer Place.” Mike doesn’t want to talk, he just wants to hold her.

  He quietly says, “I didn’t want to make a big deal out of it.”

  “Like you didn’t want to make a big deal out of the fact that your picture was on the cover of Time magazine last year? I could’ve killed you for not telling us.”

  Time had done a special issue on preservation in America in 1990. Mike’s company had won many prestigious awards by then, and he had landed on the cover. A head-and-shoulders shot of Mike in a hard hat, his gray eyes intent on the crumbling façade of a once-splendid opera house.

  Paul Armstrong had already made the cover of Time. Twice.

  “How come that Hoover woman didn’t come with you?”

  “Regina.” Mike corrects her.

  “All right, Regina. I knew it had something to do with vacuum cleaners. Why didn’t she come?” she asks again.

  Mike stifles a laugh, then says, “Katie, hush. Let’s dance.”

  She moves closer to him, and always one to get the last word in, whispers, “I’m very proud of you.”

  They let themselves into the condo a little past midnight, Kate carrying her shoes. Paul is waiting up for them in the living room, as they knew he would. It takes him a couple of hours to wind down after a game. Mike is unknotting his bow tie, unfastening the top button of his shirt, as Paul rises to greet him.

  “Pretty sharp, buddy,” Paul says, giving his hand a quick pump.

  Paul glances at his wife, but makes no comment. Mike frowns at Kate, and she gives her head a small shake.

  “How was the game tonight?’ she asks.

  “We won, four to two. I hit a home run, batted in a couple of runs.”

  “And the world goes on.” Kate smiles wanly. “If you guys will excuse me, I’m beat. I’ll see you in the morning, Mike. And thanks for the wonderful evening. Congratulations, again.” And she is gone.

  The two men sit talking for twenty minutes before Paul yawns.

  “I’d better hit the sack. I’ll be better company tomorrow.” He pauses at the master bedroom door. “What time does your flight leave?”

  “Pretty early. Nine-fifteen.”

  “I’ll try to get up. If I don’t, it was great seeing ya.”

  “Same here,” Mike answers, with the odd feeling that neither of them really means it.

  The door closes behind Paul. Mike stays on the couch for a few more minutes, then wearily gets up and goes into the kitchen for a glass of water. Paul’s angry voice can be heard clearly through the walls, rooting Mike in place.

  “Why the hell weren’t you at the game tonight?”

  He can’t hear Kate’s reply.

  “Yeah, I got your message. And what the hell is that? Leaving a goddamn message, for chrissakes!”

  “Lower your voice.” Kate’s voice is suddenly clear. She must have been standing at the connecting wall. “I couldn’t reach you. You were on the field.”

  “You’re supposed to be at the game, Kate.”

  “It was an important night for Mike. I’m glad I went.”

  “Fuck Mike! You belong at the games.”

  “I go to every game, Paul. Every game! Missing one isn’t the end of the world.”

  “I need you there!”

  “I’ll be there tomorrow night. And the night after that. And then you’ll be on the road again. Why don’t you need me there?”

  Paul doesn’t answer. There is a thudding noise and a sudden, ominous silence. Mike has reached the kitchen door in a split second, but he hears Kate’s voice again.

  “Are you happy now?” She’s crying. “That was my favorite piece.”

  Mike breathes deeply, as he realizes the sound was some object knocked over—broken. Not Kate.

  “I’m sorry.”

  She makes an unintelligible sound.

  Not wanting to listen anymore, yet unable to stop himself, Mike leans against the doorjamb and closes his eyes. Was this how it always was with them? God, he hoped not. Couldn’t be. Why the hell did she put up with it?

  “Kate, I’m sorry,” Paul says again. “I haven’t seen you in nine days. I thought we’d be alone.” There is a pause. “Come on, baby … I love you. You know that.”

  Mike strains to hear Kate’s words, but none come. It’s quiet for a very long time and Mike understands the silence when it’s broken by a small moan. His question has been answered.

  He takes off his shoes and creeps to the guest room to spend a lonely, restless night.

  Mike is up very early, and is surprised to find Kate in the kitchen, drinking coffee. “Morning.” Mike kisses her cheek. “What are you doing up?”

  “I didn’t want to miss you.”

  He doesn’t fail to catch the wistful tone of her voice.

  “We’re friends, Katie, so I have to tell you … I heard the fight last night. Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine.” She meets his eyes. “Really. Hey, we’re married. We argue.”

  “I’m sorry if I was the cause of this.”

  “Don’t be.” She gives him a small smile. “I had a great time. It was very special.”

  They talk quietly through breakfast and then it’s time for him to leave. As they wait for his cab, he says, “I guess I’m not gonna get to say good-bye to Paul.”

  “He usually sleeps till about eleven.”

  Mike nods.

  “I miss the old days, Mike.”

  “We hada lot of fun. But we still do, Katie.”

  She doesn’t say anything.

  “You’ll be home in a couple of months. We’ll get together for a marathon weekend of Trivial Pursuit.”

  Her eyes fill with tears. “I love you, Mike.”

  He takes her in his arms and rocks her. “I love you, too, darlin’. Don’t get lost in all this.” The buzzer rings, signaling his ride. “Have a little faith. Lots of good things to come. I know it.”

  Hidden scars. Hidden betrayals. Hidden pain. They’d all been concealing something. The damage had been done. But at least his love was out in the open at last. It was a start.

  Mike went into the kitchen to wait. When the sound of running water stopped, and he knew Kate was done showering, Mike poured her another cup of coffee.

  CHAPTER

  EIGHTEEN

  Kate shuffled barefoot into the kitchen, tightening the belt on her terry-cloth bathrobe. “Still here, huh?” she said wearily, eyeing Mike.

  “Still here,” he answered. “What do you want for breakfast?”

  “Aspirin. Lots of aspirin.”

  “Think you can handle some toast?”

  “No.” As she sat in the nearest chair, the towel she’d wrapped around her head began slipping. She tried to catch it, and the sudden movement made her groan. The towel landed on the floor. “Would you get that for me? I don’t think I can bend over and live.”

  Mike obliged and then went to pop two pieces of bread in the toaster.

  “Where’s Matt?” she asked.

  “I sent him home. I didn’t think his youthful eyes could take the sight of you today.”

  “And the hits just keep on comin’.” Kate reached for the aspirin bottle and began struggling with the safety cap.

  Mike’s fingers closed around her hand. “Here, let me.” With minimal effort, he opened the bottle. “How many?”

  She cupped her hand and said, “Just pour. I’ll say when.”

  In minutes, a plate of buttered toast appeared in front of her, along with a cup of coffee.

  “You’re a man of many talents,” she said, just a touch of sarcasm in her voice.

  “More than you know.” He straddled the chair across from her, and watched as she gazed at the toast as if it were a small alien that had somehow landed in her kitchen. “Oh, you are in bad shape when you let a line like that get past you.”

  “Do you want snappy repartee or do you want me to eat this toast?”


  “Eat.”

  Kate choked down most of one piece before speaking again. “Y’know, that was a fairly high school thing, Sheryl talking to me like that.”

  “Used to work in high school.”

  “Did it really?” Kate asked in disbelief.

  “Oh, yeah. You wouldn’t believe the perks of having an older sister, especially when you’re a sophomore and your sister is a senior.”

  “Well! This is a side to you I know nothing about. Mike Fitzgerald, teenage gigolo.”

  His smile spoke volumes.

  She was intrigued. “Who was your first?”

  “You don’t know her. She was in Sheryl’s class.”

  “Ah, an older woman,” Kate stated. “Where?”

  “Why are you so interested?”

  “Keeps my mind off the pounding in my head. Come on. Where?”

  Teasing her, he looked up at the ceiling as if deliberating whether or not to tell. He finally said, “The supply closet in the journalism room.”

  “What? Oh, that’s disgusting!”

  “Hey, it was carpeted!”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “You never saw that little commemorative plaque in there? It’s right next to the filing cabinet.”

  “What, the one that says Michael J. Fitzgerald is full of shit?”

  His eyes widened in mock indignation. “Have I ever lied to you?”

  Kate looked into his kind, gray eyes. They smiled at her and she suddenly understood how that unnamed girl felt all those years ago. It was not the reaction she’d expected, and Kate struggled to halt the flush that was coming over her. Grabbing the coffee cup with both hands, she brought it to her lips and hid there.

  “Well,” Mike said, standing. “I think you can get through the rest of the day without me. They’re calling for rain the next few days, so I think Matt and I are going to move indoors.”

  “Fine,” she said from behind the cup. “Thanks, Mike. I mean it.”

  “I know you do.” He had started for the hallway, and Kate put the cup down in its saucer with hands that trembled. “Oh—and Kate?” His voice was close—just behind her. “Don’t let it get this bad again. If you can’t sleep, or want to talk, just call me.” He picked up her damp, heavy hair and held it.