If I Could Turn Back Time (32 page)

Authors: Beth Harbison

It doesn’t take long to sign up for a matchmaking service online. I was able to sit there, at that beautiful little coffee shop, and become disheartened by countless men in just a matter of about forty-five minutes.

I know plenty of people have had really good luck with those services, so it’s not that I think there’s anything inherently wrong with them, but something about my list of likes and dislikes seemed to bring up a bunch of young men looking for cougars.

What
is
that?

For men, that would be a dream come true. A bunch of much younger women coming on to them, perhaps openly eager for gratuitous sex. No romance. No commitment. It was perfect.

For some.

For me, it was discouraging. I think I’d been hoping, still, that fate was alive and well and working its butt off for me, and that whoever that man in my dreams was, my opening myself to online dating would call him in immediately. The angels would sing and God Himself would whisper in my ear,
I’ve been
waiting
for you to take just one tiny step forward so I could help you! Welcome to your own Paradise!

I’m saying this like I’m joking, but, actually, I think part of me really thought it might go that way.

And I wasn’t giving up; I didn’t shut down the account, but after CallMeMaybe178 sent me a picture of his erect
self
, I decided I’d had enough for the day. I mean, for one thing, if 177 other people have chosen the handle CallMeMaybe before you, maybe you can come up with something more original? And, more importantly, if you’re still in the “maybe calling” stage, perhaps that’s not the time to go around showing your oddly bent dick to strangers.

That’s how I see things, anyway.

So I closed my computer with a sigh, and then closed my eyes for a moment, trying to block out all I’d seen and wished I hadn’t. Guys with twenty-eight nearly identical unattractive pictures, mostly taken shirtless in bathroom mirrors; guys with one single picture, in which they’d clearly cut out a woman, whose hand usually remained draped over his pictured (tuxedoed) shoulder; guys standing in front of a faded backdrop that pegged their picture as at least fifteen or twenty years old; and of course the ubiquitous Frat-Boy Guys with their mouths frozen in silent post-beer-bong roars of triumph.

There were a lot of those. More than any one of them probably thought.

Why weren’t things the way I’d always thought they’d be? Why didn’t people who were meant to be together just gravitate toward each other in real life and end up living happily ever after? It was so easy in high school and college; everyone was expected to be dating, and every classroom had a daily round of speed dating with no expectations and no real disappointments. When one person didn’t work out, there was easily another. And another.

Often one of his friends.

Youth is all about constantly meeting people.

What was supposed to become of those who didn’t meet their forever mate in youth? The whiny, petulant me wanted to complain that it wasn’t fair. I’d been dating for over twenty years now and it was all miserable.

I took my wallet and went to the counter to order another coffee. This time I went all-out on a white mocha latt
é
with sugar and full heavy cream. What did I care? It was one day, at my favorite coffee shop. Why not live a little?

As I waited for the coffee to be made, I looked around the crowded shop at the people. Many were tourists; this was a historic part of town, so it drew a lot of tourists, whether or not they’d read in the guidebook how great the coffee was. Most of those people were coupled up.

There were also artsy types. Multipierced college students who looked impossibly young. A pair of lesbian couples, one of which looked seriously happy and the other looking like one was ready to bitch-slap her partner. Love always had its bad days, I supposed.

I went back to my table. No one had disturbed my computer, so I sat down and opened it up again. Maybe I’d been too hasty.

The minute I pulled up the Web site, though, my discouragement came back.

“Excuse me. Miss?”

At first I didn’t realize the voice was talking to me, but then I felt a tap on my shoulder.

I looked up and was instantly blinded by the sun. A looming figure was next to it. I moved to try and position the sun behind him so I could see. “Yes?” Spots dangled before my eyes from the glare.

“I’m really sorry to interrupt, and I know this is going to sound like a come-on, but it’s not.… Do we know each other?”

I looked up into the face of a very good-looking man. “I don’t think so,” I said. Unfortunately. Then again, if it was a come-on, then maybe it didn’t matter. Maybe I should let him come on.

“Sorry.” He gave an embarrassed smile and I had a momentary twinge of thinking maybe he
did
look familiar. “I know it sounds stupid, and definitely sounds like a lie, but I had the strongest feeling. But it would have been from years ago.”

I smiled. “Oh, well, there you go. I haven’t lived here that long. Only about five years.”

“Yeah? Where were you from before that?”

I laughed. “You’re pretty good at this!”

“No, it’s not that.” He gave a very embarrassed smile. “It’s just—you’re not from Maryland, are you?”

The air rushed into my lungs, like I’d been hit. No way. “Actually I am.”

“Potomac?”

“Yes.” I shaded my eyes and looked closer, but the sun was too much. “Have a seat,” I offered, indicating the empty chair in front of me.

“If you’re sure.…”

“Why not? We’re in public. You can’t mug me easily.” I gave a laugh.

“Oh, no, I’d never try anything like that. It’s just that I’m working a job here and I would never have expected to see
anyone
familiar, and there you were. I almost didn’t even come here, but something told me…” He shook his head. “This all sounds dumb. I’m sorry. So you’re from Potomac, huh?”

“I am.” He came into focus, and, sure enough, I
knew
I knew his face. I watched him sit down, marveling at how familiar his movements were, the way he held himself. “Joe?” I asked, disbelieving.

He blinked and half glanced over his shoulder. “Me? No, my name is Jeremy. Jeremy Norton.” He put his hand out.

“No
way
!” Jer! It was him. It was
Joe
from my dream. Joe the contractor who’d worked on the garage. It was completely unmistakable. Somehow I’d put a few years on Jer and put him into my dream, although I hadn’t gotten his name right. Joe was Jer!

Somehow I’d had him right, even if I’d had his name wrong.

“I think we went to school together,” I fumbled, so he wouldn’t feel like he was hanging out there on a limb. “I’m Ramie. Ramie Phillips. We drank Zima together.”

He snapped his fingers. “
That’s
it. Ramie Phillips.” He gave a laugh. “Twelfth grade. Man, I had
such
a crush on you.”

“I know.” I raised an eyebrow, but we both laughed.

“I wasn’t too subtle.”

“That’s okay, I wasn’t too smart.”

The conversation took off from there. He’d been married for like three years out of college, but it hadn’t worked out and they’d parted ways, no hard feelings. Since then he’d been working as a master craftsman, all up and down the coast. For a long time he’d been working in my mom’s neighborhood, where he’d lived when I’d met him, but finally he realized—as I had, once upon a time—that he was self-employed and could live anywhere, so why was he living and spending winters in such a mercilessly cold (or hot, depending on the time of year) part of the country?

We finished our coffees and decided to walk along the waterfront, even though I had work to do and I was quite certain he did too. He’d said he’d just stopped for a quick cup of java before getting back to work on a large project, but as soon as we started talking, he made a call to someone and then asked if I had time to go for a walk.

It was perfect. Unexpectedly perfect. The weather, the timing, and, I knew now, the person. Because
this
was who I’d dreamed about all those times, the man whose face I could never see. It was Jeremy Norton. The whole time.

Even though we weren’t touching, I knew from the feeling I had, walking by his side, that this was the guy.

Finally.

I wanted to catch his hand in mine, to tell him we had a lot to catch up on, because that’s the way it felt. Like I’d known him forever. Like he was meant to be,
all
of this was meant to be, just like my father had said. I felt this strange sense of urgency, like we’d waited too long and I didn’t want to waste even one more second.

But that would have seemed crazy. And, besides, I knew there was time now. That was the one thing I had learned for sure.

There is always time.

EPILOGUE

We get more chances than perhaps you might think to go back and revisit our loved ones after we’re gone. Generally speaking, communication is difficult, and often goes unnoticed or dismissed as “coincidence” or “imagination,” and those who know and tell the truth are too often called “frauds” and “opportunists.”

But sometimes—some rare times—when a soul has left in its own time, it leaves a loved one wholly unprepared. Unruddered. Missing some of the most important lessons that were meant to be shared.

And in those cases, sometimes—some very rare times—a soul can find its way back to communicate in a less subtle way. To remind their loved one of those things they must know in order to find their own fate, rather than running around in pointless circles, only to have to start over again.

And so the soul that was Robert watched his daughter walk away, down a brightly sunlit Florida sidewalk, with the man she had been longing for in her soul for all of her life. Finally her life was beginning in earnest, her purpose destined, and sure to be fulfilled. There was love in her future. So much love.

He concentrated on her for a moment, and sent one last signal to her. It was an easy one. Anyone could have done it. Elementary.

He smiled when he saw her stop, frown, and look around. She’d gotten his sign. Smelled it.

The faintest waft of Aqua Velva on the warm breeze.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

BETH HARBISON
is the
New York Times
bestselling author of
Driving with the Top Down; Chose the Wrong Guy, Gave Him the Wrong Finger; When in Doubt, Add Butter; Always Something There to Remind Me; Thin, Rich, Pretty; Hope in a Jar; Secrets of a Shoe Addict;
and
Shoe Addicts Anonymous
. She grew up in Potomac, Maryland, outside Washington, D.C., and now divides her time between that suburb, New York City, and a quiet home on the Eastern Shore. Visit
www.bethharbison.com
. Or sign up for email updates
here
.