Empty Arms: A Novel (27 page)

When I drive through town on my way to work, the faded black awning pulls my eyes toward it. Despite the early hour, the shiny black Porsche is parked out front, and it irritates me to think that Jackson Walsh is hard at work finding someone other than Emily.

The mood in the nursery is out of sorts. All the babies are crying, and there aren’t enough hands to change and feed them fast enough. I move from one bassinet to the next, peeling off soiled diapers and cleansing little fannies while their bodies arch in annoyance and kick against me. The babies quiet when we feed them, but the others just get them riled up again when we’re done. As the miserable screams chafe my nerves, I think of Melody and wonder how she does it.

When the clock hits twelve I bolt out of the nursery. My ears are ringing as I head down to the cafeteria for the first time in months. I make my way through the line, adding a chef’s salad, whole grain baguette, and Diet Coke to my tray. I grab a seat at the table near the window and drizzle a packet of fat-free honey mustard over the lettuce. I stab it with my fork, and my gaze drifts outside as I chew, following a bird swooping by. It’s the robin. She lands on the edge of the nest I watched her build months ago, holding a worm in her beak. Four little orange beaks pop up and open wide, clamoring for the meal. She drops the worm into one baby’s mouth and flies off to find more food.

“Is this seat taken?”

Harper is standing at my side with a cautious smile.

I shake my head and gesture for him to sit.

He sets his tray next to mine. French fries form a golden moat around his cheeseburger and overflow off his plate. As he pulls out the chair and sits down, his lean frame makes me envious of his super-charged metabolism. “Last night was fun.” His face comes alive when he says it, and I blush.

“It was,” I agree, marveling at how much lighter I feel in his presence.

“We should do it again sometime.” Though his tone is casual, I sense an edge of caution, as if he’s waiting for me to hurt him again.

“I’d like that.”

He looks surprised, but he jumps at the opening. “We’re playing downtown this weekend. Do you want to come? We could grab a bite beforehand?”

It’s been ages since I’ve had plans for the weekend. Usually Saturday and Sunday drag on while I wait for the work week to come and distract me from all of my problems at home. Having something to look forward to sounds exactly like what I need. “That sounds like fun.”

By the time Saturday rolls around, I fear I’ve made a huge mistake. I’m not in my thirties any more, should I really be hanging out in bars with handsome young men?

“I don’t see the problem,” Melody says when I call her for reinforcement.

“I feel too old for this, too worn out.”

“All the more reason you need it. Let your guard down for a night, Cate. Give yourself permission to have some fun.”

She makes a good point. I’m always so busy torturing myself about losing Emily that I never give myself permission to have any fun.

“All right,” I agree. “Tonight I will have fun.”

The doorbell rings a couple of minutes after six. When I open the door, Harper is standing on the front porch. He looks like a rock star in faded ripped jeans and a black T-shirt.

“You look amazing,” he says before I can second-guess the pale yellow sundress I’m wearing.

“Thanks,” I reply, forcing myself to accept his compliment rather than giving in to self-doubt. I debate inviting him in, but I don’t want to see him sitting on my couch or standing in my kitchen, surrounded by all my emotional baggage. I pull the door shut behind me and follow him down the front walk to his car. Music blares from the radio when he turns his car on, but rather than turning it down, he drums his fingers on his steering wheel.
Permission to have fun
, I remind myself and tap my hands on my thighs.

He parks in front of a restaurant called The International. “Have you ever eaten here?” he asks.

I look at the multitude of flags blowing in the breeze and shake my head.

“You’re in for a treat. They have dishes from all over the world.” He leads me inside, where the walls are covered with maps and souvenirs from different countries. My eyes bounce from a horned Viking helmet to hand-painted wooden clogs to a white orchid-covered kimono.

“Harper, you’re back,” a short Asian woman says as she reaches to give him a hug.

“Good to see you, Song.” When he bends down and hugs her she regards me over his shoulder.

“I see you have someone special with you tonight.”

He grins and tucks a strand of hair behind his ear. “This is Cate.”

“Hi, Song,” I say, shaking her hand.

“Good to meet you,” she says and then shows us to a table.

“They have great South American food,” Harper says, opening his menu.

I open mine, and my eyes bounce from one unfamiliar name to the next. Doro Wett. Ful Medames. Masala Dosas. Pupusas. There are so many options but only one dish I recognize: Pasta Bolognese. Even though I don’t really care for such a meaty sauce, it’s the only dish I could order and actually know what to expect. I consider some of the other more exotic names, but what if I don’t like what I order? What if I end up with cow brain or pig tongue?
Permission to have fun
, a little voice reminds me. There’s only one way to settle this. I close my eyes, slide my finger down the page, and stop at random. Nasi Goreng. The name makes my stomach turn, it sounds like “nasty gangrene.”
Let your guard down for a night,
Melody’s voice reminds me. I close my menu, nasty gangrene it is.

The waitress arrives with two glasses of ice water.

“Would you like some wine?” Harper asks.

“Sure. You pick.”

“We’ll take a bottle of Almaviva.”

The waitress nods and walks away.

“It’s a red from Chile’s oldest wine region, Maipo.”

I grin, impressed by his worldliness.

The waitress returns and pours him a glass of ruby red wine. Harper gives it a swirl, sticks his nose in the glass, and breathes in the aroma. He takes a slow sip and then nods with approval. She smiles and fills my glass.

“Thank you,” I say and gesture for Harper to order first.

He asks for the Churrasco con Chimichurri with an impeccable accent.

“I’ll have the Nasi Goreng,” I say timidly, hoping I haven’t mangled the name too badly.

“Excellent choice,” he says.

When the waitress leaves, he raises his glass. “Salud.”

“Salud.” We touch glasses, and I’m surprised at how much I like the wine. “This is really good.”

“It’s a blend of Cabernet Sauvignon, Carmenere, and Cabernet Franc.”

“No wonder I like it.” I smile and take another sip. “So how did you find this place?”

“When I moved to Lowville, I searched for restaurants that serve South American food. It turns out this is the only one.”

I laugh. “I have to admit, I’ve never met anyone so passionate about South American food.”

“It brings back good memories,” he says, wistfully.

“Of what?”

“Living there. Backpacking around. Volunteering.”

I lean forward, intrigued. “What kind of volunteer work did you do?”

“A little of everything. I built schools and houses in Peru, taught English in Ecuador, and worked with children in Argentine orphanages.”

“That sounds amazing.”

He nods. “Those were the best years of my life.”

“Why did you leave?”

He shrugs and sips his wine. “My parents kept after me about getting a real job. According to them, it was time for me to grow up. So I came home, finished college, and joined the real world.” There’s sorrow in his voice, as if he left his heart there. I nod, knowing exactly how he feels.

“How did you end up in Lowville of all places?”

“By accident.”

I tilt my head in curiosity.

He tucks a strand of hair behind his ear with a bashful grin. “I moved here for a girl.”

I nod, unsure if I should ask what happened to her.

“It didn’t work out,” he says.

I nod. “Sorry to hear that.”

“I’m not. We had a lot of differences, which was exciting at first, but as things got more serious, we found that we kept trying to make each other change.”

I sip my wine trying not to think of Paul.

“Love shouldn’t be that hard, you know?” His words strike a nerve, and I’m thankful when the waitress reappears and sets down our plates.

Nasi Goreng, it turns out, is an Indonesian stir-fry with rice, chicken, and shrimp. I breathe in an aroma of garlic, cumin, and coriander. My stomach rumbles with enthusiasm.

On Harper’s plate is an Argentine grilled flank steak with an herb sauce. “Bon appétit,” he says, slicing into the slab of meat.

The Nasi Goreng tastes even better than it smells, and it makes me wonder why this is my first time eating here. Paul’s face pops into my mind, and I remember all the times I tried to get him to take me to the new Thai restaurant downtown. “If I can’t pronounce it, I won’t eat it,” he’d say, which limited us to either American or Italian food. If I had brought him here, he definitely would’ve ordered the Pasta Bolognese.

“How is it?” Harper asks.

“Amazing. Yours?”

“Delicioso.” He watches me take another bite. “I have to admit, I’m relieved. I wasn’t sure if you were an adventurous eater. I’m glad to see you are.”

I’d never thought of myself that way, but I smile, pleased with his assessment.

W
E ENTER THE
B
LUE
L
INE
B
AR
through the back door, and the other members of Stone Magic are gathered around a dismantled drum set and speaker boxes. “Cate, I’d like you to meet Tyler, Travis, and Jimmy.”

All three guys have chin-length hair, grungy T-shirts, and ripped jeans. “Hey,” they say with a nod before hoisting the equipment on their shoulders and lugging it onto the stage.

Harper turns to me with an apologetic look. “I better help them set up.”

“Do you need a hand?”

He smiles. “Thanks, but no. You just enjoy the show.”

There’s a stool near the velvet curtain. I take a seat and peer out into the bar. The place is packed, and it’s standing room only. I can’t imagine speaking in front of these people, let alone singing. But Harper’s such a natural. It’s as if the stage is the one place where he can really be himself. My eyes follow him as he carries a snare drum onto the stage. He shoots me a smile when he notices me watching him. And I can’t help but smile back.

My heart races when the lights lower and the owner takes the mic and begins warming up the crowd.

“Good luck,” I tell him as cheers erupt from the audience. My heart rattles in my chest as I look out at the sea of faces waiting for Harper and his band mates to take the stage.

“Do you have any requests?”

“‘Wild Horses.’”

He smiles and plants a kiss on my hand. “In case I forget to tell you this later, I’m really glad you’re here.”

I grin, and for the first time in a long time, happiness finds its way into my heart.

I watch from the wings as Harper takes the stage with Tyler, Travis, and Jimmy behind him. Jimmy’s electric guitar cuts through the air, and the crowd goes wild when they recognize the melody of “Satisfaction.” Harper jumps around on the stage and extends the mic to the crowd. Everyone sings along with him, including me.

After a few more upbeat songs, Harper says, “This next one’s for Cate.”

I close my eyes and drift into his smooth voice. Though he’s on stage playing for a packed house, I feel connected to him, as if he’s singing just for me. I sway to the chorus. I never want this feeling to slip away.

I peer through the curtains to see if the audience is enjoying the song as much as I am. Bodies sway, and the stage lights illuminate wonder-filled faces. Some people are singing along while others stand in awe of Harper’s voice. The only person in the whole place who’s unmoved by the music is a husky figure slouching at the bar. There’s something familiar about the way he stares at the bottle in his hands and peels at the label, as if he’s immune to the merriment around him. How often I’ve felt just like him. As he lifts the bottle to his lips, light shines across his face, and I realize I’m staring at Paul.

I yank the curtains closed and duck behind the wall. My heart hammers in my ears. What the hell am I doing here? I don’t hang out backstage at concerts or eat exotic food. I can pretend all I want, but, like Paul, I don’t belong here.

The opening notes of “Paint It Black” send the audience into a frenzy. Harper bounces to the beat of the music and whips his hair like a propeller. His voice rips through the air, and everyone chants along with him. As I watch him, I wish I could be the person he sees, but I’m not. I’ll never be.

I inch away from the stage and, when no one is looking, slip out the back door. In the parking lot, a couple is pressed close together, sharing a cigarette and exchanging low whispers. I duck by them and hurry down the alley toward Main Street. Street lamps flicker overhead, but the road is empty except for an occasional car. I search for a cab but there aren’t any. And I certainly can’t go back inside and call for one. Beneath a light across the street, Paul’s silver truck catches my eye. For a fleeting moment, I wish it was as simple as asking him for a ride home. But things are far from simple. I turn in the opposite direction and start walking.