A Bend in the Road (9 page)

Friday brought
the first truly crisp air of autumn. In the morning, light frost had dusted
every grassy patch; people saw their breath as they climbed in their cars to go
to work. The oaks and the dogwoods and the magnolias had yet to begin their
slow turn toward red and orange and now, with the day winding down, Sarah
watched the sunlight filtering through the leaves, casting shadows along the
pavement.

Miles would be
here before long, and she’d been thinking about it on and off all day. With
three messages on her answering machine, she knew her mother had been thinking
about it as well—a little too much, in Sarah’s opinion. Her mother had rambled
on and on, leaving—it seemed to Sarah—no stone unturned. “About tonight, don’t
forget to bring a jacket. You don’t want to catch pneumonia. With this chill,
it’s possible, you know,” began one, and from there it went on to offer all
sorts of interesting advice, from not wearing too much makeup or fancy jewelry
“so he won’t get the wrong impression,” to making sure the nylons that Sarah
was wearing didn’t have any runs in them (“Nothing looks worse, you know”). The
second message began by backtracking to the first and sounded a little more
frantic, as if her mother knew she was running out of time to dispense the
worldly wisdom she’d accumulated over the years: “When I said jacket, I meant
something classy. Something light. I know you might get cold, but you want to
look nice. And for God’s sake, whatever you do, don’t wear that big long green
one you’re so fond of. It may be warm, but it’s ugly as sin. . .  .” When she heard her mother’s voice on the
third message, this timereally frantic as she described the importance of
reading the newspaper “so you’ll have something to talk about,” Sarah simply
hit the delete button without bothering to listen to the rest of it.

She had a date
to get ready for.

• • •

Through the
window an hour later, Sarah saw Miles coming around the corner with a long box
under his arm. He paused for a moment, as if he were making sure he was in the right
place, then opened the downstairs door and vanished inside. As she heard him
climb the stairs, she smoothed the black cocktail dress she’d agonized over
while deciding what to wear, then opened the door.  “Hey there . . . am I late?”

Sarah smiled. “No,
you’re right on time. I saw you coming up.”

Miles took a deep
breath. “You look beautiful,” he said.

“Thank you.” She
motioned toward the box. “Is that for me?”

He nodded as he
handed her the box. Inside were six yellow roses.

“There’s one for
every week you’ve been working with Jonah.”

“That’s sweet,”
she said sincerely. “My mom will be impressed.”

“Your mom?”

She smiled. “I’ll
tell you about her later. C’mon in while I find something to put these in.”

Miles stepped
inside and took a quick glance around her apartment. It was charming—smaller
than he thought it would be, but surprisingly homey, and most of the furniture
blended well with the place. There was a comfortable-looking couch framed in
wood, end tables with an almost fashionable fade to the stain, a nicked-up
glider rocker in the corner beneath a lamp that looked a hundred years old—even
the patchwork quilt thrown over the back of the chair looked like something
from the last century.

In the kitchen,
Sarah opened the cupboard above the sink, pushed aside a couple of bowls, and
pulled down a small crystal vase, which she filled with water.  “This is a nice place you’ve got,” he said.

Sarah looked up.
“Thanks. I like it.”

“Did you decorate
it yourself?”

“Pretty much. I
brought some things from Baltimore, but once I saw all the antique stores, I
decided to replace most of it. There are some great places around here.”

Miles ran his
hand along an old rolltop desk near the window, then pushed aside the curtains
to peek out. “Do you like living downtown?” From the drawer, Sarah pulled out a
pair of scissors and started angling the bottoms of the stems. “Yeah, but I’ll
tell you, the commotion around here keeps me up all night long. All those
crowds, those people screaming and fighting, partying until dawn. It’s amazing
that I ever get to sleep at all.” “That quiet, huh?”

She arranged
the flowers in the vase, one by one. “This is the first place I’ve ever lived
where everybody seems to be in bed by nine o’clock. It’s like a ghost town down
here as soon as the sun goes down, but I’ll bet that makes your job pretty
easy, huh?”

“To be honest,
it doesn’t really affect me. Except for eviction notices, my jurisdiction ends
at the town limits. I generally work in the county.” “Running those speed traps
that the South is famous for?” she asked playfully.

Miles shook his
head. “No, that’s not me, either. That’s the highway patrol.”

“So what you’re
really saying is that you don’t really do much at all, then. . .

.”

“Exactly,” he
concurred. “Aside from teaching, I can’t think of any job less challenging to
do.”

She laughed as
she slid the vase toward the center of the counter. “They’re lovely. Thank
you.” She stepped out from behind the counter and reached for her purse. “So
where are we going?”

“Right around
the corner. The Harvey Mansion. Oh, and it’s a little cool out, so you should
probably wear a jacket,” he said, eyeing her sleeveless dress.  Sarah went to the closet, remembering her
mother’s words on her message, wishing she hadn’t listened to it. She hated
being cold, and she was one of those people who got cold very easily. But
instead of going for the “big long green one” that would keep her warm, she
picked out a light jacket that matched her dress, something that would have
made her mother nod appreciatively. Classy. When she slipped it on, Miles
looked at her as if he wanted to say something but didn’t know how.

“Is something
wrong?” she asked as she pulled it on.

“Well . . . it’s
cold out there. You sure you don’t want something warmer?”

“You won’t mind?”

“Why would I
mind?”

She gladly
switched jackets (the big long green one), and Miles helped her put it on,
holding the sleeves open for her. A moment later, after locking the front door,
they were making their way down the steps. As soon as Sarah stepped outside,
the temperature nipped at her cheeks and she instinctively buried her hands in
her pockets.

“Don’t you
think it was too chilly for your other jacket?” “Definitely,” she said, smiling
thankfully. “But it doesn’t match what I’m wearing.”

“I’d rather you
be comfortable. And besides, this one looks good on you.”

She loved him for
that. Take that, Mom!

They started down
the street, and a few steps later—surprising herself as much as Miles—she took
one hand from her pocket and looped it through his arm.  “So,” she said, “let me tell you about my
mother.”

• • •

At their table
a few minutes later, Miles couldn’t stifle a laugh. “She sounds great.”

“Easy for you to
say. She’s not your mother.”

“It’s just her
way of showing you that she loves you.”

“I know. But it
would be easier if she didn’t always worry so much. Sometimes I think she does
it on purpose just to drive me crazy.”

Despite her
obvious exasperation, Sarah looked positively luminous in the flickering
candlelight, Miles decided.

The Harvey
Mansion was one of the better restaurants in town. Originally a home dating
from the 1790s, it was a popular romantic getaway. When it was being redesigned
for its current use, the owners decided to retain most of the floor plan. Miles
and Sarah were led up a curving set of stairs and were seated in what was once
a library. Dimly lit, it was a medium-size room with red-oak flooring and an
intricately designed tin ceiling. Along two walls were mahogany shelves, lined
with hundreds of books; along the third wall, the fireplace cast an ethereal
glow. Sarah and Miles were seated in the corner near the window.  There were only five other tables, and
though all were occupied, people talked in low murmurs.

“Mmm . . . I
think you’re right,” Miles said. “Your mother probably lies awake at night
thinking of new ways to torment you.”

“I thought you
said you’d never met her.”

Miles chuckled.
“Well, at least she’s around. Like I told you when we first met, I hardly even
talk to my father anymore.”

“Where is he
now?”

“I have no
idea. I got a postcard a couple of months ago from Charleston, but there’s no
telling if he’s still there. He doesn’t usually stay in one place all that
long, he doesn’t call, and he very seldom makes it back to town. He hasn’t seen
me or Jonah for years now.”

“I can’t
imagine that.”

“It’s just the
way he is, but then, he wasn’t exactly Ward Cleaver when I was little. Half the
time, I got the impression he didn’t like having us around.” “Us?”

“Me and my mom.”

“Didn’t he love
her?”

“I have no idea.”

“Oh, come on. . .
.”

“I’m serious. She
was pregnant when they got married, and I can’t honestly say they were ever
meant for each other. They ran real hot and cold—one day they were madly in
love, and the next day she was throwing his clothes on the front lawn and
telling him never to come back. And when she died, he just took up and left as
fast as he could. Quit his job, sold the house, bought himself a boat, and told
me he was going to see the world. Didn’t know a thing about sailing, either.
Said he’d learn what he needed as he went along, and I guess he has.” Sarah
frowned. “That’s a little strange.”

“Not for him.
To be honest, I wasn’t surprised at all, but you’d have to meet him to know
what I’m talking about.” He shook his head slightly, as if disgusted.

“How did your
mother die?” Sarah asked gently.

A strange,
shuttered expression crossed his face, and Sarah immediately regretted bringing
it up. She leaned forward. “I’m sorry—that was rude. I shouldn’t have asked.”

“It’s okay,”
Miles said quietly. “I don’t mind. It happened a long time ago, so it’s not
hard to talk about. It’s just that I haven’t talked about it in years.  I can’t remember the last time someone asked
about my mother.” Miles drummed his fingers absently on the table before
sitting up a little straighter. He spoke matter-of-factly, almost as if he were
talking about someone he didn’t know. Sarah recognized the tone: It was the way
she spoke of Michael now.

“My mom started
having these pains in her stomach. Sometimes, she couldn’t even sleep at night.
Deep down, I think she knew how serious it was, and by the time she finally
went in to see the doctor, the cancer had spread to her pancreas and liver.
There was nothing that anyone could do. She passed away less than three weeks
later.”

“I’m sorry,” she
said, not knowing what else to say.

“So am I,” he
said. “I think you would have liked her.”

“I’m sure I would
have.”

They were
interrupted by the waiter as he approached the table and took their drink
orders. As if on cue, both Sarah and Miles reached for the menus and read them
quickly.

“So what’s good?”
she asked.

“Everything,
really.”

“No special
recommendations?”

“I’ll probably
get a steak of some sort.”

“Why does that
not surprise me?”

He glanced up.
“You have something against steak?”

“Not at all. You
just didn’t strike me as the tofu and salad type.” She closed her menu. “I, on
the other hand, have to watch my girlish figure.” “So what are you getting?”

She smiled. “A
steak.”

Miles closed
his menu and pushed it off to the side of the table. “So, now that we’ve
covered my life, why don’t you tell me about yours? What was it like growing up
in your family?”

Sarah set her
menu on top of his.

“Unlike what
you had, my parentswere Ward and June Cleaver. We lived in a suburb just
outside Baltimore in the most typical of houses—four bedrooms, two bathrooms,
complete with a porch, flower garden, and a white picket fence. I rode the bus
to school with my neighbors, played in the front yard all weekend long, and had
the biggest collection of Barbies on the whole block. Dad worked from nine to
five and wore a suit every day: Mom stayed home, and I don’t think I ever saw
her without an apron. And our house always smelled like a bakery. Mom made
cookies for me and my brother every day, and we’d eat them in the kitchen and
recite what we learned that day.”

“Sounds nice.”

“It was. My mom
was great when we were little kids. She was the kind of mom that the other kids
ran to if they hurt themselves or got in a jam of some sort. It wasn’t until my
brother and I got older that she started to get neurotic on me.” Miles raised
both eyebrows. “Now, was it that she changed, or was she always neurotic and
you were too young to notice?”

“That sounds like
something Sylvia would say.”

“Sylvia?”

“A friend of
mine,” she said evasively, “a good friend.” If Miles sensed her hesitation, he
gave no notice.

Their drinks
arrived and the waiter took their order. As soon as he was gone, Miles leaned
forward, bringing his face closer to hers.

“What’s your
brother like?”

“Brian? He’s a
nice kid. I swear, he’s more grown-up than most people I work with. But he’s
shy and not real good at meeting people. He tends to be a little introspective,
but when we’re together, we just click and always have. That’s one of the main
reasons I came back here. I wanted to spend some time with him before he headed
off to college. He just started at UNC.” Miles nodded. “So, he’s a lot younger
than you,” he said, and Sarah looked up at him.

“Nota lot
younger.”

“Well . . .
enough. You’re what, forty? Forty-five?” he said, repeating what she’d said to
him the first time they’d met.