He had left Kate sleeping—passed out?—he didn’t know. He only knew he couldn’t stay there with her. God, he’d come so close. Even knowing she had no idea he was Matt, his fingers had stroked her—entered her. She was so wet. So ready. And then she’d moaned, saying, “Paul … I can’t take it anymore.”
Matt didn’t know what that meant. But he couldn’t forget the way she’d said Paul’s name. And what he did know was that she’d never really wanted him. She’d gone so still that he’d become frightened. But she was breathing. That was when he’d pulled on his pants and come up to the tower room. She’d given him the key, hadn’t she? Immersed in the silence of the house and the tangible memories of Paul Armstrong, Matt tried to understand what had just happened. He didn’t like what he learned about himself. Because the more he thought about it, the more he realized he had wanted Kate because she’d been Paul’s. As if, by taking her, he could take in some part of Paul. As if she were the secret to Paul’s success.
Shit, Matt. Shit!
And now what? How were they going to face each other? They’d have to see each other day in and day out, and remember.
Pulling the glove off, he put it back on the shelf.
“What are you doing in here?”
Startled, Matt turned to face a pale, tight-lipped Kate. He started to speak, but couldn’t find his voice right away and had to clear his throat. “Are you okay?” he finally asked.
Ignoring his question, she repeated hers.
“I—uh … You gave me the key. I didn’t think you’d mind …” His voice trailed off, as he got a good look at her reddened eyes. She clung to the doorframe, as if it were the only thing holding her up. “Kate, I’m sorry. It shouldn’t have happened the way it did.”
Kate stared at him bleakly. “What are you saying, Matt? That at some other place in time it would’ve been all right?” She watched him blush. “It was wrong, plain and simple. And it’s my fault.”
His eyes on the floor, Matt said, “You didn’t want me. I figured that out.” Then he lifted his eyes to meet hers. “We didn’t go that far, Kate.”
“We didn’t? Who are you kidding? I woke up naked! Your underwear was on the floor.” She choked on a sob. “We went far enough!”
“I can’t apologize for wanting you, Kate.”
“Matt, you’re nineteen years old! You could be my son, for Christ’s sake!” She groaned. “You are my friend’s son,” she said, and another wave of nausea engulfed her.
“Mom’ll never know. She’ll never find out. I promise!”
Almost to herself, she said, “And then there’s Mike …” Kate clutched her stomach. “Oh, sweet Jesus, Mike.”
As if on cue, the telephone began to ring. They both stood still, listening. It seemed to go on forever, and when it finally stopped their guilt became a palpable thing binding them together.
What time was it? Why was he calling now? Kate had no doubt that the caller had been Mike. Propelled by fear, she stepped to the window and looked across the street. His house was dark. There was no sign of his truck. Kate let out a ragged breath.
“Kate?”
She turned.
“What about Mike? What’s he got to do with anything?”
There it was. The million-dollar question. What did Mike have to do with anything? A faint voice in the back of her mind said, Everything.
“Mike and I …”
What, Kate? Why can’t you say it?
But she couldn’t bring herself to speak the words out loud. If she did—if Kate admitted she wanted Mike as much as he wanted her—then what had happened earlier was treason.
Puzzled, Matt asked, “You’re not going to tell him, are you?”
“I have to tell him, Matt. I’ve always been honest with Mike. He … his friendship means the world to me.”
And then understanding flooded Matt’s face. All the talk about Kate, the protective actions, the innuendos that his mother made. They suddenly made sense when placed in context with Mike.
“Don’t tell him, Kate. He’ll hate us both.”
Kate stared into Matt’s hazel eyes, and knew he was right. The phone rang again, jarring her into action. “I have to answer that. It’s him.”
She ran from the room, leaving Matt standing alone. He felt a thin trickle of cold sweat run down the back of his neck at the thought of what his uncle’s reaction would be if he found out.
When Kate walked back into the tower room, Matt was gone. She moved to the window and saw the tail-lights of his MG disappear up the street.
The caller hadn’t been Mike, but Sheryl. And that made Kate feel even more afraid, because she’d come to count on Mike’s devotion. Which was why, after she’d told Sheryl Matt was on his way, Kate asked where Mike was staying.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-SEVEN
Mike lay on the left side of the king-sized canopy bed, idly running his fingers across the rice design of one of the posts. The bed seemed to stretch out forever, mocking the fact that he was alone.
A late call from Kate, aside from surprising him, left him feeling dissatisfied and edgy. A portion of their conversation kept running through his mind.
She’d told him about Homer, and then said, “I really wish you were here. Maybe—” But she’d cut herself off.
“Maybe what?” he’d asked.
“Nothing. It’s been hard for me. That’s all.”
He knew what that meant, and he’d asked, “How much did you have to drink?”
“A couple of brandies.”
“Is that all?”
She had hesitated. “And I took a Percocet.”
“God damn it, Kate. When is this gonna stop? When I come over someday and find you dead?”
“I’ll never do it again.” A small catch in her voice made him believe that maybe she meant it this time. She’d sounded afraid, almost cowed, and he’d reacted before he could stop himself. “What happened? Are you all right?” The line had been so quiet he couldn’t even hear her breath.
“When are you coming home?” she asked.
“Tomorrow night or Sunday. We ran into a few snags. Why?”
“I need to talk to you.”
Again, that little hitch in her voice, making him wonder what she wasn’t telling him. His voice hardened. “So, talk.”
“I can’t … not on the phone.”
“Then I’ll see you when I get back,” he’d replied firmly. “And don’t worry about Homer. He’ll turn up.”
She’d hung on the line, and he’d finally said, “Good night, Kate,” and severed the connection himself.
Mike closed his eyes, needing to leave now, knowing he couldn’t. The client was insisting on a complete rundown of expenditures, and the foundation was bending over backward to accommodate him. James Savage owned a good portion of Williamsburg’s commercial property, and they needed his funding.
This had been a hard trip for him. Williamsburg, dressed up for Christmas, was meant to be shared. Earlier in the day, while he had been holed up in a conference room at the College of William and Mary, a light dusting of snow had fallen. Coming out of the five-hour meeting, seeing the grounds transformed into a veritable winter wonderland, he was sorry he’d turned down the dinner invitation from one of the foundation’s members. It would’ve been better than being alone on a night like this.
Setting off on foot, he walked the short distance to the end of the campus. Passing the Wren Building, he ended up on Duke of Gloucester Street, the heart of Colonial Williamsburg. The wide, brick-lined street, bordered by expensive shops and restaurants, gave way to the Disney-perfect re-creation of a colonial town.
Leafless trees lined the broad street, their bare branches outlined in glittering snow. Mike stepped up onto the brick sidewalk and stopped to look around. It was dusk, and the streetlights were just being lit by a young man. The oily yellow light reflected off the pristine buildings. Electric lights, made to look like candles, began to come on in the windows of houses.
Cedar boughs, like cake decorations sprinkled with powdered sugar, were draped over railings and doorways. The street hadn’t been opened to traffic yet, and it was quiet.
The dinner hour loomed, and Mike walked on. It seemed that the only people on the street were couples. Arms linked, or hand in hand, they moved along, caught up in their own world. He’d never felt so lonely. The bells from the church chimed six times, and he picked up his pace.
A woman’s laughter, familiar, tumbled out across the empty street, and he quickly looked up to see where it was coming from. The door of the King’s Arms Tavern was just closing behind a man and woman. Feeling the first pangs of hunger, Mike crossed the street and followed the couple’s footsteps into the warmth of the building.
He waited only ten minutes before he was shown to a small table near a window. The room was dim. Only candlelight glimmered off the silver and pewter. A fire blazed in the hearth and the smell of bayberry filled the air.
Mike sat at the linen-covered table, sipping a glass of wine, knowing he should have eaten in his room at the hotel. This was definitely a night for romance. He felt out of place—left out. To pass the time until his dinner arrived, he took some papers out of his briefcase and began reading, but he couldn’t keep his mind on the words. He wanted to look across the table and see Kate.
“You work too hard.”
The woman’s voice came from behind, and he swung around in his chair and looked up. “My God. Allison!”
She smiled. “I wasn’t sure it was you, until you opened that briefcase. Who else would come to the King’s Arms and work?”
Losing some of his despondency, he smiled back and gestured toward the other chair. “Have a scat.” Allison came around to face him and he saw she hadn’t changed.
“I can’t, Mike. I’m not alone.” It was then he saw the diamond ring on her left hand. “I just wanted to say hello.”
“You look wonderful, Alli.”
She blushed at his use of her nickname.
“I see best wishes are in order,” he said, indicating the ring.
“Oh, yes. Thanks.” She lowered her voice. “I wanted to tell you how sorry I am about Paul Armstrong. I liked him.”
“Everybody did. Thanks.”
“I’m sorry it’s taken me this long to tell you, but at the time I still felt like the walking wounded.” She smiled. “You were hard to get over, Mike Fitzgerald. But I finally did it.” Looking into his gray eyes, Allison saw the past, and wondered if he knew she was lying.
“I understand, Alli. It was a tough few years for me, too.”
“How’s his wife doing? It must’ve been very hard for her.”
He nodded. “You’re a good person, Alli. I know it’s not much, but I’m sorry for the way things worked out.”
She looked away for a moment, then said, “Did I hear that you moved back to Staunton?”
“Yeah. It suits me.”
Summoning up her courage, she casually asked, “Still dreaming the impossible dream?” His face didn’t change, but his eyes narrowed slightly. “I’m sorry, Mike. That was uncalled for.” She took a breath. “I’d better get back to Brian.”
“It was good seeing you, Allison. My best to you both.” He put out his hand and she took it.
Softly squeezing his fingers, she said, “I want to wish you all the luck in the world. I know what it’s like loving someone that much.” Her fingers trailed across his palm. “Merry Christmas, Mike.”
His dinner arrived, but his appetite had fled. The impossible dream. Yes, and it was time to wake up.
He’d gone back to his room and, with the television on, worked until the phone had rung. And now, replaying the conversation over and over again, he finally fell asleep. But instead of dreaming of Kate, he had a nightmare that had him locked in the suffocating tower room, surrounded by images of Paul, with a grinning Matt peering at him through the window. Mike struggled to get the window open, to get out, to breathe fresh air. When he finally picked up one of Paul’s trophies and shattered the window, Matt’s face disappeared in a shower of glass.
The image woke him. His heart pounding, his body drenched in sweat, he sat up in the huge bed and attempted to breathe normally. Rubbing a hand across his face, he tried to make sense of the dream. He told himself it was just a dream and wasn’t supposed to make sense, but he stole a look at the clock on the nightstand, just in case it wasn’t too late to call Sheryl. To make sure Matt was okay. The digital display read 1:45, and he picked up the phone.
Sheryl answered his call with a frantic, “What’s wrong?” When she heard his voice, and he assured her that nothing was wrong, that he just wanted to make sure everything was all right there, she said, “Are you nuts, calling at this time of night? God, Mike, I hate it when you do this.”
“Is Matt there?”
“Of course he’s here. Where else would he be?”
“You’re sure?”
She took a deep breath, trying to curb her annoyance. “Yes, Mike. He put on his jammies and I tucked him in myself. What’s this all about?”
“Nothing.”
“You wake me up at two in the morning for nothing?”
“Kate sounded a little funny when I talked to her. I was just wondering if Matt happened to say anything.”
“Kate again? I’m hanging up, Mike.”
“No, really, Sherry … did he say anything?”
“No, really, Mike … he didn’t. And if you know what’s good for you, you won’t say anything else and go to sleep.”
Matt was startled when he heard the phone ringing in the middle of the night, but it quit and he assumed everything was okay. He listened, but didn’t hear his mother coming down the hall to tell him any bad news, so it must have been a wrong number. Just in case, he got up from his bed and checked to be sure his door was locked. Then he went back to poring over the scrapbook he’d “borrowed” from the tower room. Kate didn’t know he had it. It had been easy to sneak it out to his car while she’d gone to answer the phone.
There had been a scrapbook for every year that Paul had played baseball, all of them carefully, lovingly, pieced together. Matt chose 1984, the year his uncle had taken him to his first major league game. The year he’d first met Paul Armstrong.
Matt read every article, every clipping. He found the San Francisco Chronicle’s report on the game he’d attended in Philadelphia and read through it twice. He remembered the game like it was yesterday. The three-run homer, the single that scored the winning run, the amazing double play that got the team out of a one-out, bases-loaded situation. It was all there.
Matt moved on to a short magazine piece on baseball card collecting. He couldn’t figure out what it was doing in the scrapbook, until he turned the page and saw Paul’s name highlighted in yellow. The article focused on rookie cards, and a small photo showed Paul holding his own card. The caption under the photograph read: Giants great Paul Armstrong won’t give up his rookie card to just anyone. “I’m saving this for someone special.”
Matt smiled. The card, signed and framed, hung on his bedroom wall. It had been in one of his Christmas packages from Paul. His smile faded to puzzlement. The article had been published in the April edition. The season had just started, and Matt hadn’t met Paul yet. Mystified, Matt read the article through. He continued looking at the picture, as if it would give him some clue as to who Paul meant by “someone special.”
Getting off the bed, he went to his desk and opened the bottom drawer. Lifting out the small box that held the six precious letters from Paul, he picked out the one from Christmas of 1988 and unfolded it. He knew them all by heart, and he found the line he was looking for immediately. Paul had written: “I’ve heard my rookie card is worth a lot of money, so don’t trade it! I’ve been saving it for you for a long time and I think you’re old enough to appreciate it now.”
Matt’s eyes strayed to the framed card and squinted in concentration, and he became even more confused. He went back to the scrapb
ook and didn’t turn off his light till well past three.
Matt stood at the kitchen sink eating his second bowl of cereal.
“You’re up early. What’s the occasion?” his mother asked, smothering a yawn.
“I promised Kate I’d help her look for Homer,” he answered, rinsing out the dish.
“Oh. Kate. How could I forget?”
Her sarcastic tone wasn’t lost on Matt. “How come you never told me about Uncle Mike and Kate?”
Sheryl hid her surprise at his question, and simply said, “There was nothing to tell.”
“But he’s in love with her. Right?”
Sheryl nodded as she made herself a cup of instant coffee. “That’s old news, Matt. He’s been in love with her for a hundred years. And speaking of Kate—and God, when aren’t we?—was she okay when you left her last night?”
Matt’s defenses came up. “What d’you mean?” He could feel gooseflesh prickling his arms.
“I don’t know what I mean,” Sheryl said, her irritation at Mike’s late-night phone call still festering. “Your uncle called me in the wee hours and asked me if she was okay.” She plopped into a chair. “How the hell am I supposed to know?” she said to herself.
Matt didn’t think an answer was called for. He was wrong.
“Well?”
“Well, what?”
His mother raised an eyebrow and speared him with her “don’t get smart with me” look.
Matt quickly answered, “Yeah. She was okay. Just upset about Homer, that’s all.” And not one to be swayed, Matt returned to the original subject, “So, does Kate feel the same way about Uncle Mike?”
“Why are you so interested?”
Matt shrugged. “I just can’t believe no one ever told me.”
Sheryl grinned at him. “And I can’t believe you never noticed. Mike can be about as subtle as a jackhammer when it comes to Kate.”
“Well, I never knew.” Ruffling his mother’s hair, he jokingly asked, “What else are you hiding from me?”
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