Two From the Heart

by James Patterson

  We hugged each other hard. “Really, she’s old enough for school already?”

  Karen smiled. “I can’t believe it either. Come in, come in. Do you want to shower and change?”

  I surreptitiously sniffed an armpit. “Do I need to?”

  “No.” She laughed. “I was just trying to be hospitable. You look—and smell—perfect.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t go that far,” I said.

  She led me through the house and onto the screened-in back porch, where she got us each a seltzer from a silver ice bucket. “Six years since I’ve seen you. How can that be?” she asked, settling into a wicker rocking chair.

  “It’s terrible, I know,” I said. “But I’m so happy to see you now. You look exactly the same.”

  “Well, if you add fifteen pounds,” she said lightly. Then her tone changed. “I’m so sorry about your house.”

  I waved this away. “Let’s not talk about it. I’ve decided my coping strategy is denial.”

  Karen folded her long legs beneath her and leaned back in her chair. “All right then. Maybe you want the dirt on our old classmates.”

  She’d always been a fount of social knowledge, and I its willing recipient. “Of course,” I said.

  “Leah Larsen got divorced, for one thing.”

  “It happens to the best of us,” I said wryly.

  “Absolutely. So then her husband took up with the neighbor after Leah left him, which basically started a chain reaction of divorces in the ol’ hometown. Dan Smith—you remember him, right?—is in jail for marijuana possession, and his ex, Dodie Scheffer, is running for mayor and no one even finds that ironic. Jennifer Meyers and Jacob Sales finally got together after years of secret, seemingly unrequited love for each other, and they spent the summer following Eagles of Death Metal around on tour.”

  I laughed. “It amazes me how you still know what’s going on with everyone.”

  “Some people stay in touch when they move away,” she said—a bit pointedly, I thought.

  “But I wasn’t friends with all those people,” I said. “You were.”

  “Well you could have been,” she said. “Instead you were always disappearing into the darkroom. The rest of us were living in the actual world—and you were living in what you could see through your camera’s viewfinder.”

  I sighed. “I’m coming to realize that.”

  She smiled. “It’s nothing to regret. We are who we are.”

  “Well, I am trying to branch out a little,” I said. “I told you about my book project.”

  “Your best story,” Karen said, nodding thoughtfully. “Like the time we stole all the lawn ornaments from Bob Ubbin’s yard? Or maybe when we went hot-tubbing in January and then got pneumonia at the same time and missed the winter formal?”

  “Right, which would have sucked anyway,” I said, laughing. “Those are funny anecdotes—but they’re not a best story.”

  Karen looked out over her pretty lawn and shook her head. “No, I guess not,” she said. “The answer’s easy, though. Sophie’s my best story.”

  I could hear the love and awe in her voice. But Sophie wasn’t a story; she was a person. “Sorry—narratively unsatisfying,” I said, nudging Karen playfully.

  “I could tell you about giving birth. That’s a story.”

  “Well…”

  “Yeah, you probably don’t want to hear it. It’s rather gruesome. All right, let me think.” She frowned lightly. “But Anne, you already know all my stories. You’re in them.”

  “Tell me a secret, then,” I said.

  Karen looked down at her hands for a moment, and then she looked up at me. “All right,” she said. She took a deep breath. “Do you remember that beautiful velvet dress you had in college?”

  “That slate-blue one?” I asked. “I loved that dress. But then one day it just vanished. I always wondered what happened to it.”

  Karen bit her lip, then spoke. “I’m about to tell you,” she said.

  Chapter 12

  I FELT a jolt of surprise. “Oh. Okay.”

  “You’d gone home to see your dad for his birthday. There was a dance that weekend, and I didn’t have anything to wear, so I went into your closet and there it was. I knew it was the prettiest thing you owned. I knew you’d bought it with your own money and that you wouldn’t really want me to borrow it. But I also knew that if I asked, you would have said yes. So I took it. And I wore it to the dance.” She glanced over at me and seemed to wince a little. “But the problem was I got drunk. Really drunk. And halfway through the dance, I threw up all over it.”

  “My beautiful dress,” I half whispered.

  She nodded. “I took it to cleaners all over town, but it was utterly ruined. So for a while it lived in a paper bag under my bed. And then one day I threw it in a Dumpster behind the dining hall.”

  “And you never said a thing!” I said, shocked. I was kind of mad, too. What a stupid, mean secret to keep! But then a memory flickered in my mind. It was dim at first, and then it grew bright and clear. “Wait a second,” I said. “That was the spring of the magic money, wasn’t it?”

  All that spring I’d kept finding cash—five dollars here, ten there—in the pockets of my jeans or crumpled at the bottom of my messy backpack. Once a twenty appeared in my makeup bag. When I told Karen about these exciting discoveries, she’d brushed them off. “You’ve never been able to keep track of anything, Anne,” she’d pointed out. “Why on earth would your money be any different?”

  But now I finally understood. “You were hiding all that money in my stuff!” I said.

  “I was trying to pay you back,” Karen admitted.

  “I can’t believe it,” I said. “Is that why you took that second work study job?

  She nodded again. “I swear, I’ve felt bad about it for fifteen years.”

  I leaned forward and put my hand on her knee. The flare of anger I’d felt had vanished. “Honey,” I said. “When my mother was dying, you moved into my house. You slept on the floor of my bedroom for most of our senior year in high school because I couldn’t bear to be alone. My whole life I’ve been able to count on you.” I felt tears prick at the corners of my eyes. “You’ve always been there. You can throw up on every single thing I own, and I’ll still love you forever.”

  Now I thought Karen looked like she might cry, too. “That’s good,” she said quietly. “Because actually I might throw up.” She smiled. “You see, I’m pregnant. And it’s twins. That’s what I wanted to tell you.”

  I just about fell out of my chair. But when I’d recovered from the surprise, I hugged her tightly. “Oh my God, I’m so happy for you.”

  “Me, too,” she said. “I think,” she added. Then she got up and motioned me to follow. “Perfect timing—I hear the school bus.”

  Out front, we watched a dozen kids dash off the bus, and then one small blond girl came running toward us. She practically leaped into Karen’s arms, and as she clung to her mother, her words came out in a rush. “Mommy I read all of Are You My Mother? today out loud and I’m starving and can I have a playdate with Clara because she got a guinea pig and will we have dessert tonight or is it a night I only get fruit and how many days is it until my birthday?”

  Karen laughed and kissed her on both cheeks, then gently set her down. “Before I tackle those questions, let me introduce you to my oldest, bestest friend, Anne.”

  I knelt down and gazed into the bright green eyes of Karen’s best story. “I’ve wanted to meet you for years,” I said, smiling at her. She was tiny and perfect and beautiful, with dirty knees and a smudge of spaghetti sauce on her face. “Would it be okay if I gave you just a little hug?”

  She nodded, and so I took her into my arms. She giggled, wriggly as a fish, and I marveled at the loveliness of her small body. It’s true what they say, I thought. Life really is a miracle.

  She whispered, “It’s nice to meet you. Please stay for dinner. That way we’ll have dessert.”

  Chapter
13

  KAREN INSISTED we go out that evening—for old times’ sake. “You’re going to like this place,” she promised as she led me to the door of the Gooseneck Tavern.

  “I don’t want to drink alone,” I protested.

  “Trust me, you’re not going to.”

  “Can’t we just keep sitting on your porch—”

  She shoved me gently toward the entrance. “Didn’t you say you were trying to expand your horizons? Here’s your chance to prove it.”

  Inside the tavern, Christmas lights suspended from low rafters bathed everything in a rosy glow. A band played on a small stage at the far end of the room, and over the din of chatter, I could hear the strains of a twangy, acoustic version of “Dead Flowers.”

  “I can’t believe I’m out on a school night,” Karen said giddily. “With eye shadow on and everything.”

  “You’re living la vida loca,” I agreed.

  “In Iowa City, Iowa,” she added. “It truly boggles the mind.”

  At the bar I ordered a gin and tonic for me, and a club soda for the mother-to-be. I still couldn’t believe Karen’s news. But I was thrilled for her, I really was. In another six months, she’d have three children sitting in the back of her shining Volvo.

  And me—well, I’d have a van and a spider plant.

  I guess I wasn’t quite sure how to feel about that.

  “Maybe we should find you a little fling tonight,” Karen suggested, leaning back against the bar and scanning the room.

  “Look at me,” I said. “I’m wearing old jeans and an even older T-shirt.” I glanced down at my Frye booties. “My shoe game is on point, though.”

  Karen sighed. “When are you going to stop pretending like you’re not gorgeous, Anne?”

  “Says Malibu Barbie,” I muttered.

  She elbowed me. “I heard that.”

  “I haven’t been on a date since I left Patrick,” I admitted. “You know, the guy you told me I shouldn’t marry,” I added, because I couldn’t help reminding her.

  “Well, was I wrong?” she asked.

  “We had a little over two good years.”

  “And one terrible one.”

  “Just because something doesn’t work out in the end doesn’t mean it was bad from the beginning. I’m not sorry for it,” I said.

  She nodded. “Good. You shouldn’t be. That which doesn’t kill you—”

  “I hate it when people say that!”

  “I know. That’s why I said it.” She smiled wistfully. “Don’t think I don’t sometimes wish I could run away to Aruba the way you ran off to that island.”

  “North Carolina is hardly Aruba.”

  “Well it ain’t Iowa, either.”

  “Touché,” I said.

  She put her arm around my shoulders. “Want to go check out the band with your old best pal?”

  We wound our way through the crowd and found places in front of the stage. I noted the lead singer—a young woman with bleached, spiky hair—and the old guy on the pedal steel, and the bearded giant manhandling a stand-up bass. But my eyes were quickly drawn to the guitarist, who stood on the far right of the stage, as if he weren’t sure he was part of the band.

  “He’s got a young Robert Downey Jr. thing going on,” Karen said, knowing exactly where I was looking. “Except his eyes aren’t as buggy.”

  “He’s definitely good-looking,” I allowed.

  He was lanky and slightly slouched, but in a way that seemed thoughtful rather than lazy. His hair, which needed a trim, was wavy and black.

  When it came time for his solo, he turned away from the crowd, too—as if the music were so personal he didn’t want a bunch of strangers watching him make it. And because we couldn’t see his fingers on the strings, the melody seemed to radiate out from his body in a way that was utterly mesmerizing. Everyone watched him, quiet now, listening to the way the notes soared and plunged through the air.

  When it was over we clapped like crazy, and then the band took off their instruments and headed offstage.

  And the crazy thing was, when he stepped down from the platform, he walked over to me.

  My first thought was that he believed I was someone else. So I said, “I’m not—”

  “Hi,” he said. “Can I buy you a drink?”

  Before I could tell him that I had one, Karen slid over to me, grabbed the drink I’d been working on, slipped her spare house key into my pocket, and melted away into the crowd.

  I was impressed. And not a little flustered.

  “I think your wingman wants you to say yes,” the guitarist said, offering me a big, boyish smile. “I’m Rob.”

  I took his hand and shook it. “Anne,” I said. “I’m not from around here, and yes, I’d love a gin and tonic.”

  But as I followed him toward the bar, I had second thoughts.

  Crazy ones.

  “Actually?” I said.

  He turned around, his dark eyes meeting mine. “What?”

  I took a deep breath. “Actually,” I said, “I think you should probably just go ahead and kiss me.”

  Chapter 14

  KAREN PLACED a mug of coffee in front of me and then sat down across the breakfast table. “Tell me everything,” she demanded.

  My cheeks grew warm at the memory. (How a person could get to age thirty-six without ever kissing a handsome utter stranger was another mystery, especially considering how fun it had been.) “His name is Rob… and we made out a little,” I said.

  “A little?” Karen asked.

  I smiled. Rob and I had gone out to a dark, private corner of the patio, but he hadn’t kissed me right away. Instead he’d taken my hand in his and held it, warm and gentle. I traced the calluses on his fingertips from his guitar, and it was almost like I could still hear the melody of their last song. And then I’d blurted, “You know I’m never going to be here again,” and he’d smiled this almost bashful smile and said, “Never say—”

  But before he could say never, I’d stood on my tiptoes and kissed him, a long, deep kiss that sent electric tingles to every single nerve ending in my body. It was the first of several.

  “All right, Karen, we made out kind of a lot,” I admitted.

  “I knew it!” Karen crowed. “I’m so proud of you.”

  I faked a bow. “Just doing my duty, ma’am. Anytime you need someone to kiss a handsome musician, I’m your gal.”

  Karen sighed and rested a hand on her still-flat stomach. “I guess I’ll have to start living la vida loca vicariously through you now.”

  “I hope you enjoy long hours in the car,” I said.

  “Did you get his number?”

  “No, silly, because I’m leaving, remember?”

  She laughed. “You could’ve called him, said ‘thanks for the memories.’”

  I shook my head. “That’s not loca, that’s polite.” Then out of the corner of my eye, I saw Sophie tiptoeing over in a pair of pink flannel pj’s. “Well, look who’s up!”

  “I made you something,” she said shyly, holding out a wrinkled piece of paper.

  I squinted at the multicolored lines and squiggles. “I love it—that’s an absolutely amazing cat,” I said.

  “It’s actually a guinea pig,” she said.

  “That’s what I meant! Did I say cat? Obviously it’s a guinea pig.” I held it to my chest. “Thank you so much. I have something for you, too.” And I pinched off one of the little plantlets that sprouted from Spidey’s leaves and placed it in Sophie’s tiny palm. “If you put this in potting soil and keep it watered, you’ll have your own spider plant.”

  Her eyes widened. “Does it grow spiders?”

  “No, just nice, variegated leaves,” I assured her. “Green, with white stripes.”

  “I want to plant it right now,” she said to her mother.

  I drained the last of my coffee and stood. “I’ll let you two do that. I have to get on the road. I’m going to visit my mom’s best friend, near Kansas City.”

  Kar
en shot me a look. “That doesn’t sound very loca, either,” she said.

  I hugged her and resisted the urge to touch her belly. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Don’t let another six years go by, okay?” she said.

  “I won’t,” I promised. “I’m coming back to meet those—” I stopped and mouthed the word babies.

  “Good. And you ought to make one of your own one of these days, you know,” Karen said. She always was bossy like that.

  “Maybe,” I said, though it seemed just as likely that I’d make a spaceship and fly to the rings of Saturn. “Who knows. But I’m going to make a book first.” I held up my camera and snapped her picture. “And you’re going to be in it.”

  Chapter 15

  I HADN’T seen Pauline, my mom’s best friend, for almost two decades. But she sent cards every Christmas, which was how I knew that she’d been diagnosed with breast cancer—just like my mom.

  They’d had the same disease, and it had even been caught at the same stage. But only Pauline’s story had a happy ending: She’d been cancer-free for five years now.

  My mom, on the other hand, had been dead for nearly twenty.

  But I didn’t want to think dark thoughts on this late-August afternoon, with the sun shining bright and golden over the small town of Bonner Springs, Missouri. So I decided to park on the main drag, buy myself an iced mocha, and walk the quiet streets to Pauline’s house while pondering happier subjects.

  I passed modest but immaculate houses, roses spilling over white fences, joggers and dog walkers, and even a stand of kids selling lemonade. It was like strolling along through a Norman Rockwell painting—which was charming, but also so perfect it was weird.

  If I lived in a quaint Midwestern town like this, a palm tree wouldn’t fall on my darkroom—but otherwise, would my life be so very different? As my dad used to say, Wherever you go, there you are.

  But maybe he just used that as an excuse not to go to new places or, toward the end of his life, to move much beyond his favorite easy chair. He’d been in a lot of pain by then—he’d broken a hip, and it hadn’t healed right—so it must have been better to stay still. To wait for death to find him in the living room.