A Love for All Seasons (19 page)

Benjamin Clements had been a tall man, well over six feet. In the photo his large hand covered her shoulder and upper arm to keep her from falling over. She smiled at the protective gesture. Her father loved her; that much was clear. Then her eyes moved to his face, and she gasped in shock.

Her father looked just like Jack Devlin.

Whatever Gets You through The Night

S
he
stared open-mouthed at the reproduction. Benjamin Clements had a close-cropped haircut in an era where many men wore three-inch or longer Afros. Like Jack, he wore no moustache, no beard. He was tall, perhaps even taller than Jack, with broad shoulders. But what struck her immediately was his piercing dark brown eyes. No wonder she felt from the beginning that she had seen Jack before, that they had a prior history together. Jack's appearance stirred up memories of her birth father.

A memory came to the forefront of her mind, so strongly that her shoulders jerked. She remembered being carried about on broad shoulders in the years before Daphne's birth, remembered feeling like she was high enough to touch the sky. All this time she believed those shoulders belonged to Fletcher Timberlake, but in that one instant she saw it clearly.

Her birth father, Benjamin Clements, had been the one to carry her that way.

She closed her eyes tightly. Surely there had to be more memories that she'd buried in her subconscious.

Alicia sat quietly for a full five minutes, but nothing came to her. She realized that memories worked like inspiration…they couldn't be forced.

She leaned forward and cradled her forehead in her hands. Not only was she
not
the daughter of the only parents she clearly remembered, but her birth father bore a remarkable resemblance to the man she was dating. Either one of those by itself would be difficult to cope with. This reminded her of what political pundits coined, “an October surprise,” revelations about candidates that came to light in the weeks just prior to the November election that contained enough substance to affect the outcome. It might be December, but these were her October surprises. Her whole life had been changed because of the new information she now possessed.

What a way to wind up the year, especially when considering the event that triggered it all. The death of her mother—no, she couldn't even accurately refer to Caroline Timberlake that way anymore—had come as a blow, but it hadn't been unexpected.

Alicia recalled that day in October, right after she met Jack and waited impatiently for him to call. She'd gone to her mother's room Sunday morning—doggone it, she couldn't just up and stop thinking of her that way, not after nearly thirty-five years—and Caroline had started to tell her something, but stopped when Martha came in with a breakfast tray. At the time Alicia thought her mother intended to say nothing more than continued concerns about possible effects on her because of her father's preference for Daphne. But what was that she'd prefaced with? Something about how lost she felt before Alicia “came along,” and how much she meant to her? No, she planned then to tell her about the adoption. Martha came in with breakfast, the three of them talked a bit while they ate, and then Martha took the tray down to the kitchen, promising to return to help Caroline dress, and Alicia went to get ready herself. There hadn't been another chance for them to talk privately the rest of the day.

Of all times for Martha to join them. If only she'd taken a few more minutes to prepare that food….

Alicia knew she couldn't fault Martha for her timing. She had no way of knowing.

But she couldn't help wondering how different things might have turned out for her if Caroline told
her
the truth about her past, rather than Daphne.

 

Jack frowned. Alicia's greeting sounded barely intelligible, completely unlike her usual crisp diction. “Alicia, it's Jack. Are you okay? You sound funny.”

“No, Jack, ahm not okay. In fact, I'm not even sure ahm even A-
lee
-see-a.” She mimicked his pronunciation of her name.

He took a moment to absorb what he heard. He immediately recognized the signs of excessive drinking in her slurred words, but he struggled to come up with a reason why she would express uncertainty about her identity. He could think of nothing except something must be terribly wrong. That, of course, meant she shouldn't be alone.

He didn't hesitate to make the suggestion. “I'd like to come over, if that's all right with you.”

“Sure. Just as' fo' the li'l nobody when you ring the bell.”

His forehead wrinkled in confusion. What the heck was she talking about?

He packed a suit, shirt, socks, and underwear for work tomorrow and some toiletries and threw everything in a black nylon garment bag. At the last minute he tossed in an extra shirt. He didn't stop to dial Rhonda until he'd gotten on a train headed for the city.

“Rhonda, have you spoken with Alicia today?” he inquired without preamble as soon as she answered the phone.

“No, Jack, why?”

“I called her a little while ago. She sounded awful, like she's been hitting the bottle again.”

“I don't understand what's gotten into her lately. She barely used to touch a drop. And here I was thinking that since her mother passed she'd probably cut it out.”

“People who only drink when they're stressed over something often become alcoholics,” he remarked. “But there's more to it than that. She said some things to me on the phone that just plain don't make sense. I think something happened to her today, or maybe last night.”

“I can get Pete, and we can go down there to check on her.”

“No, you stay put. I'm already on a train. I'll go to work straight from her apartment.”

“Will you call us, let us know what's going on?”

He recognized the concern in her voice. “I promise. Try not to worry.”

 

In a hurry to reach Alicia, Jack took a cab to her apartment from Grand Central. He rang her bell, then rang it again when she hadn't answered after a minute. He had his cell out to call her when her voice came through the speaker. “Who 'zit?”

He started to call out her name, then rephrased. “It's Jack. Let me in.”

When the buzzer sounded he pulled the door open and proceeded to take the stairs two at a time until he reached the fourth floor landing.

When she opened the door, after what seemed like an eternity, he immediately forgot his promise not to use her first name. Her hair was loose and uncombed, her eyes puffy and bloodshot, her face showing intense strain. His beautiful Alicia looked almost seedy. “Alicia! What happened?”

She fell into his arms, her hands clutching his back like he alone could save her from her demons. Jack quickly glanced in the hall to see if anyone witnessed what should be a private moment. He gently eased her backward and closed the door behind him, then let the garment bag slip from his hand and fall to the floor in a heap. He used both hands to hold her to him and whispered in her ear. “It's all right. I'm here. I'll stay as long as you want me to.” He paused. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“No, not now,” she whispered back. “It hurts too much.”

“You don't have to,” he said quickly. He felt her hold on him lessen.

“I look a mess,” she said dully.

Jack wasn't sure that agreeing with her would be such a good idea. Instead he said, “Did you want to clean up?”

She reverted back to her whisper. “Yeah.”

“Go ahead. I'll just make myself comfortable.”

He hung up his garment bag in the coat closet, then removed the throw that lay across the chaise in the corner and sat down, kicking off his shoes to rest his feet on the matching ottoman. He noticed an empty bottle of Australian wine on the coffee table, as well as the martini pitcher partially filled with an unknown beverage. It broke his heart to think of her in this apartment alone, drinking to drown her pain. Thank God he'd called.

He glimpsed her leaning over an open drawer of the Bombay chest, her upper body bent but moving up and down a few inches in an inadvertent rocking motion. When she straightened up, fresh clothes in hand, and disappeared into the bathroom, he got up and discarded the empty bottle, washed out her glass, and returned the martini pitcher to the refrigerator.

Other than the ingredients of binge drinking, the apartment looked fine. Her bed at the front of the apartment remained neatly covered with pillows, as usual. She had apparently sat in the chaise and drank until she fell asleep.

Fifteen minutes passed beforeAlicia emerged from the bath, wearing a blue cotton blend knee-length bathrobe that completely concealed whatever she wore beneath it. He looked up expectantly. She looked a thousand percent better. Her hair had been brushed and caught with a coated rubber band at the nape of her neck. He still saw stress in her face, but not as much. “Feeling better?”

“Yes, much.”

She didn't seem to want to talk, so he didn't press the issue. She'd tell him what had her unglued when she was ready. “I thought I'd order in,” he said instead. “What do you feel like eating?”

“That's a great idea. I don't really want anything exotic, like Chinese or even pizza.” She took a moment to think. “You know what I could really go for? A big, juicy hamburger. But the people who make the best burgers don't deliver.”

“That's not a problem. I'll pick them up.” He had no idea how far he had to go, but if that's what she wanted, he'd find the place, wherever it was.

“No. I don't want you to leave. We'll send them by cab.”

He looked at her incredulously. “Hamburgers delivered by cab?”

“Sure! From Luger's in Brooklyn. I've done it before.”

 

An hour later Jack completed eating the best hamburger he'd ever eaten. “This is delicious,” he said.

“There's nothing like a burger from Luger's. In my opinion they're the best in New York.” She yawned. “Excuse me. I know it's bad to eat and lie down, but I'm still tired.”

“Go ahead. I'll be right here.”

He watched a documentary on the Civil War for the next two hours. Frequently he walked over to look in on her. She appeared to be sleeping, but at one point she rolled over on her stomach and whimpered into her pillow like a hurt animal.

Jack felt utterly helpless watching her. Never before had he witnessed such deep pain. He wished he had a way to get in touch with Martha. She might know what happened.

No
, he thought. Martha wouldn't know, unless she'd witnessed it herself. Alicia didn't confide in people, not even someone as close to her as Martha. The only person she might talk to had just been buried.

Could Alicia's torment stem from grief? She'd cried a little at the cemetery, not wracking sobs like Daphne, but dignified tears, like those of her uncles.

No, that wasn't it. She grieved for her mother, no doubt about that, but this was something deeper. Something unimaginable.

He sat on the edge of the bed and rested his palm lightly on her back, remaining there for nearly ten minutes, until her breathing returned to normal. She didn't wake up at all during the episode.

Jack wondered how long it would be until she felt she could share the source of her pain with him, put it into words. A day? A week? Longer? Even as he mused, he knew that however long it took, he would be by her side while she dealt with her anguish.

 

When Alicia's cell phone, laying on top of the coffee table, began its distinctive ring he looked at it uncertainly, then made a split second decision. “Hello.”

The hesitation on the other end of the line told him the caller was a male. Jack expected as much; it was after ten.

“May I speak to Alicia?” the caller finally asked in a confident voice.

“I'm sorry, she's not feeling well at the moment.”

Another pause. “Who's this, anyway?”

“This is a friend of hers.”

“So am I.”

“Good. I'll tell her you called.” Jack's finger poised to hit the End button when the man on the other end spoke.

“Wait a minute. You don't even know my name. How can you tell her I called?”

“I'll just tell her a friend of hers called.”

“My name's Derek, man. Is there anything I can do to help out?”

“That's nice of you, Derek, but I'm taking care of her.” He decided that Derek was entitled to know his identity. “This is Jack Devlin. I think I met you here, and I saw you at the funeral.”

“Yeah, I think so. Well, let me know if I can be of any help. Alicia's my girl. I gotta make sure she's okay.”

He said it in a casual rather than possessive manner, with the emphasis on “girl,” not “my.” Still, that was the last thing Jack wanted to hear Derek say. “No, Derek, she's
my
girl.” He hung up, smiling. He'd shifted the emphasis a word ahead to leave no doubt about his intentions. He knew Derek understood exactly what he meant.

He went to use the restroom, pausing by where Alicia lay on the way back. She'd climbed between the sheets of the medieval-looking sofa that served as her bed, hiding in plain sight. In sleep she looked completely peaceful, stress-free. She slept on her side, one arm partially obscured by her pillow, the other outside the blanket. A spaghetti strap of a tan nightgown peeked out from under the covers.