Once in a Lifetime (12 page)

By Christmas they had settled into a comfortable life. He had more or less moved into the cabin with her, Andrew was growing more and more independent at the school, and she had more time on her hands than she'd had in years. It allowed her to write short stories every day. Some were better than others, but they were all interesting, and all seemed to have the same distinctive style. It was as though she had discovered a facet of herself she had never known before, and she had to admit that she loved it.

"It feels so damn good, John. I don't know, it's hard to explain. It's like all of this stuff has always been there, and I never knew it."

"Maybe you should write a book." He looked very serious as he said it.

"Don't be silly. About what?"

"I don't know. See what comes. I know you've got it in you."

"I'm not sure I do. Writing short stories is different."

"That doesn't mean you can't write a book. Try it. Hell, why not? You've got the time. There's nothing else to do here in winter." And there wasn't of course, except visit Andrew. She spent two afternoons with him a week, and John went with her once every weekend. By Christmas it was easy to see that Andrew was perfectly happy, and he accepted John now with ease, signing funny things to him, now that John had learned his language. And they roughhoused outside, and more often than not John ended up with Andrew on one shoulder, and one of his friends on the other. He had come to love the child, and Daphne watched them with pride, marveling at the gifts life had brought her. It was as though all the pain of the past was swept away at last. It was easier now to live with Jeff's memory. It was only seeing little girls of Aimee's age that still hurt her so badly. But even that was better now, John had a way of soothing all hurts and making her feel peaceful and happy.

They even brought Andrew home with them for a few hours once in a while. John gave him a dozen small tasks to do around the house. They carried firewood in together, and John carved him little animals out of kindling. They baked cookies with Daphne, and once painted an old wicker rocking chair that John had found behind a deserted barn. It was obvious to all that Andrew was growing increasingly independent, and it was easier for him to communicate with them both. Daphne had grown more proficient at signing, and the tension between them had eased. Andrew was more patient with her when she made a mistake, and he giggled once or twice when she missigned a word, and then grinning, explained in sign language to John that his Mom had said she was going to cook a frog for dinner. But his silent communications with John still remained deeply touching. The two had become friends, as though they had always been part of the same life, walking side by side in silence in the fields, stopping to watch a rabbit or a deer, their eyes meeting, as though nothing needed to be said. And when it would come time to go back to the school, Andrew would sit on John's lap in the truck, and put his small hands on the steering wheel beside John's large ones, and Daphne would watch them with a smile as they drove along. He was always happy to get back to the school with the others. And leaving him was no longer as wrenching. She and John had their own little life, and she thought that she had never been as content in her entire life. And it showed in her writing.

In February she finally got up the courage to start a book, and she worked on it long and hard every day while John was at work, and at night he read the day's production, with comments and praise, and he never seemed to doubt for a moment that she could do it.

"You know, if it weren't for you, I couldn't do this." She was lying sprawled on the couch in blue jeans and boots with a stack of work on her lap as he sliced some apples for them.

"Yes, you could. I have nothing to do with it, you know. It all comes from you. It's all there. And no one will ever be able to take that away from you."

"I don't know ... I still don't understand where it all comes from."

"That isn't important. Just know that It's there, within you. No one else can affect that."

"Nope." She took a slice of apple and leaned over to give him a kiss. She loved the feel of his face against her lips, especially at the end of a day when it felt rough from the beginnings of his beard. Everything about him was so masculine and wonderfully sexy. "I still think it's all your fault. If it weren't for you, I'd never have written a damn thing." They both remembered with a smile that she had written her first short story after the first time they had made love. She had sent it in to Collins after the first of the year, to see if they would publish it, and she was still waiting for an answer.

The answer came in March, from her old boss, Allison Baer. They wanted it for five hundred dollars. "Do you see that? John, they bought my story! They're crazy!" She was waiting for him in the doorway that night with a bottle of champagne and the check, and Allison's letter.

"Congratulations!" He was as pleased as she, and they celebrated in bed until the wee hours of the morning. He teased her a lot that he never got any sleep anymore, but it was more than obvious that they both enjoyed it.

The sale of the short story to Collins spurred her on, and she worked harder on the book through the spring, and finished it at last in July. She sat staring at it, holding it in her hands, feeling the weight of the manuscript, and more than a little awed by what she had done, and at the same time saddened by the loss of the people who had become so real through the long months that she wrote it.

"Now what do I do?" It was a little bit like losing a job, and she was almost sorry it was over.

"That, my love, is an interesting question." He looked at her, bursting with pride, his chest bare, his face and arms brown, drinking a beer after a long day's work. It had been a beautiful summer. "I'm not sure, but I think you're supposed to find an agent. Why don't you ask your old boss at Collins? Give her a call tomorrow." But Daphne always hated talking to her. She harped and harped on how unnatural Daphne's life was. Daphne had never told her about John, and she assumed that Daphne was staying in New Hampshire to be near to Andrew. She always insisted that Daphne should come back to New York and get a job, but Daphne always used the excuse that she had sublet her apartment until September. And after that she would find other reasons. She had no plans now to leave. She was happy with John, and she wanted to stay in New Hampshire forever. But even John occasionally argued with that, insisting that she belonged in New York, with "her own kind" and an interesting job. He didn't think she ought to spend the rest of her life with a logger. But he didn't really want her to go, and she had no intention of leaving him, now or ever.

"How do you suppose one finds an agent?"

"Maybe you should take the book to New York and find out."

"Only if you come with me."

"That's silly, love. You don't need me for that."

"Yes, I do." She looked like a happy little girl as she sat beside him. "I need you for everything. Haven't you figured that out by now?" He had, but they both knew how much she was capable of on her own, and she was capable of a great deal.

"What would I do in New York?" He hadn't been there in twenty years, and he had no real desire to go. He was happy in the mountains of New England. "Anyway, why don't you call Allison tomorrow and see what she says." But the next day Daphne didn't do it. She decided to wait until the fall. Somehow she wasn't ready to let the book go, and she claimed that she wanted to read it over a few times, to make some final changes. "Chicken," he teased. "You can't hide forever, little one."

"Why not?"

"Because I won't let you. You're better than that." He always made her feel as though there were nothing she couldn't do. It was remarkable how much she had come into her own in the months with him.

And Andrew had changed too. He was almost five now, and no longer a baby. And in August, Daphne had plans to join him and some of the other children and parents on a camping trip, under the aegis of Mrs. Curtis. It was a special event for every one involved, and Daphne wanted John to go on the four-day trip, to share the experience with Andrew, but he couldn't get away. They had twenty college kids at the logging camp, and all of the senior men were needed to keep an eye on the "greenies."

"Can't you get away?" She was so disappointed.

"I really can't, love. I wish I could. You're going to have a great time."

"Not without you." She almost pouted and he laughed, he loved the child-woman in her.

On the third week of August they went, with sleeping bags and tents and horses. It was a new experience for the children to travel through the woods, and all around them were thrills and discoveries. Daphne had brought one of her journals along, so she could write everything down for John, all of the funny things Andrew did, and the little moments she was afraid she might not remember. But most of the time she found herself writing about John, and thinking of the night they had spent together before she left. This was the first time they had been apart in nine months, and she had ached at the prospect of being without him. Having lost someone she loved once, she had a wild fear of leaving John too. There were even nights when she had nightmares that one day she might lose him.

"You won't get rid of me that easy, little one." He had whispered it into her neck as she shared her fears. "I'm a tough old bird."

"I couldn't live without you, John."

"Yes, you could. But you won't have to try. Not for a very long time. So have a good time with the kids, and tell me all about it."

She had lain beside him at dawn, after they made love, and had felt his smooth, cool male flesh touching her thigh. It always sent the same thrill through her.

"I may suffer withdrawal in four days." In their lovemaking, he had spoiled her. He may have called himself an "old man," but there was nothing old about his passion. He had the ardor of a man half his age, blended with an experience that taught her things she had never known before. She wondered sometimes if it was so good simply because she really loved him. And it was about things like that that she wrote in her journal while she was away, whenever she wasn't playing with Andrew. She was relishing these special days with him, watching him with his friends, living together in the woods, and waking up in the morning to see that small sunny face she hadn't woken up to in so long.

They came home after four days, like any respectable bunch of campers, dirty and tired and relaxed, and pleased with what they'd done. The parents had enjoyed the trip at least as much as the children. She left Andrew at the school, and put her sleeping bag and her backpack in her car, and yawned as she slid behind the wheel. She could hardly wait to get home to John, but when she reached the cabin, she didn't find him. There were dishes in the sink, and the bed was unmade, and she smiled to herself as she stepped gratefully into the shower. She would have everything in order when he got home. But as she stood in the kitchen, washing dishes in her jeans, the knock on the door was unfamiliar. She went to open it with hands still covered with soap and she smiled when she saw one of John's friends, a man they seldom saw but whom she knew John was fond of.

"Hi, Harry, what's new?" She was tanned and relaxed and happy, but John's friend looked strained.

"When did you get back?" His face was grave and his eyes were sad, as they always were. John always teased him that he looked like his best friend had just died, but he had a fat wife and six kids, which would have been enough to depress anyone, John said. "How's Gladys?"

"Daphne, can I talk to you for a minute?" This time he looked genuinely troubled. And suddenly somewhere behind her she heard the ticking of the kitchen clock.

"Sure." She wiped her hands on her jeans, put down the towel, and came to where he stood. "Is something wrong?" He nodded slowly, with no idea how to tell her. He couldn't begin to say the words, and there was an eerie silence between them.

"Let's sit down." He moved nervously toward the couch, and she followed him as though in a dream.

"Harry? What is it? What's wrong?"

His eyes were like two sad black stones as they looked into hers. "John's dead, Daphne. He died while you were gone."

She felt the room spin around her as she saw Harry's face in the distance.... John's dead ... John's dead ... the words were from a bad dream, not reality, this hadn't happened, not to her ... again. And suddenly, in the stillness around them, she heard a woman laughing, hysterically, a raucous sound.

"No! No! No!" The shrill laughter turned to sobs as Harry watched her, anxious to explain how he died, but she didn't want to hear it. It didn't matter. She'd been here before. But impervious to what she was feeling, Harry began talking. She wanted to put her fingers in her ears and scream and run. "There was an accident at the camp the day you left. We called the school, but they said there was no way to reach you. Some of those damn college kids lost control of a winch, and a load of trees hit him...." Harry began to cry, and Daphne stared at him with wide eyes. "... broke his back and his neck. He never knew what hit him."

Neither had Jeff. Or so they had said. What difference did it make? What did it matter now? She sat staring at Harry, and all she could think of was Andrew. What was she going to tell her son?

"We're all so damn sorry. The kids were sent home, and we had the funeral home keep the body. He has no family here, or anywhere, I think. They're all gone. And we didn't know what you'd want to do.... Gladys thought--"

"It's all right." She jumped up looking tense and white-faced. "Never mind." She had passed this way before. It was only when Harry left that the tears came, great rivers of silent, anguished tears. She looked around the room and sat down again. John Fowler would never be coming home again.

"You can make it on your own, little one." She remembered his words from the past. But she didn't want to make it on her own. She wanted her life with him.

"Oh, John ..." It was a soft, broken whisper in the silence of their cabin, and she remembered all that they had said before, he about losing his wife, and she about losing Jeff. This made no more sense than that had, and she understood it no better, and yet this was different, she knew the futility of hanging on. She walked out into the woods at sunset, and the tears came again as she looked into the summer sky and thought of him, the broad shoulders and big hands, the deep voice, the man who had loved her and Andrew.