Authors: Sally John
Ignoring the comment, Sheridan plopped onto the bed and sat cross-legged. “I can’t call him. He doesn’t have a phone. Liss, you
knew
I would need to talk to him about all this business with Dad. Why didn’t you warn me before I came?”
“Like I realized you wouldn’t be able to call home? Luke never told me you don’t have phone service in that godforsaken place you live in. Who can’t call home these days?”
“You knew. You don’t have a phone number for me.”
“So? I figured your
friends
have it.”
“And I wouldn’t give it to you?”
“No, because you figured I’d give it to Dad, which isn’t true. After what he said to you about getting what you deserved when Eliot was shot, I understood why you wouldn’t talk to him.”
“You knew what he said?”
“He told me. It was awful, but that’s his way of dealing with being upset.”
“That’s a stretch.”
“You don’t know him like I . . . Oh, never mind. But come on, Sher. How could I imagine that you don’t even have a number to begin with? That is the most archaic thing I have ever heard. I cannot believe Eliot has you so completely cut off from the outside world.”
“Calissa, the outside world tried to kill him! It was my decision as much as his to be cut off from it. Now how am I supposed to talk to him? He’s my husband! This revelation is as much for him as for me.”
“Then why isn’t he here with you?”
“Don’t you dare do that.” Sheridan clutched a pillow to her stomach, debating whether to squeeze it against the knot there or to fling it at her sister. “Don’t you dare say you told me so.”
“Well, I did tell you so. I told you he was too old for you. That you’d be taking care of him someday.”
“He got shot, Calissa. It’s nothing to do with his age.”
“I also said that you hadn’t known him long enough. He would let you down someday, and now here we are, in this mess, and he’s not with you.”
“You just never liked him.”
“You never had a sensible bone in your body. You married a guy you only knew for a few months.”
“That didn’t give you and Dad the right to never accept us.”
“For crying out loud, I had dinner with you two once. One time. You wouldn’t even introduce him to Dad until after you were married.”
“I don’t know why I even bothered. He always disapproved of everything I did. And Eliot Montgomery the Third, a diplomat two inches away from becoming an ambassador, was no exception.”
Sheridan remembered the events that led to that silly meeting between the men. She and Eliot married in September. It was a private affair in the chapel of her childhood church with the old priest she knew and two friends from her department at the university. Wanting a quiet, romantic spot away from the city, they honeymooned for a week at a yacht club resort in Door County, Wisconsin. Afterward, it was time to move to Tegucigalpa, Honduras, Eliot’s new overseas assignment.
Calissa declared that the right thing to do before Sheridan left the country was to introduce her husband to their father. Still trying to gain her sister’s approval of her husband, Sheridan set up a meeting at Harrison’s office. Eliot tried to talk her out of it but in the end went along with her desire.
Sheridan said now, “What a ridiculous thing that was. They shook hands. Eliot followed the script and said, ‘I’ll take care of her, sir.’ Dad smirked.”
“That’s his everyday expression.”
“No, this one was for me. He might as well have come out and said what he was thinking—that as usual, I was an idiot.”
“Again, he was coping. You were married. You were moving out of the country. This was significant. Emotional. But he didn’t know what to do with emotions.”
“You really think he’s ever felt one?”
“Of course he has.”
“I don’t think so. But, Liss, why you? You were furious when I told you I was getting married.”
Calissa sat at the foot of the bed. “You didn’t invite me to the wedding.”
“Like I wanted you breathing fire down my neck during the ceremony.”
“I only would have tsked quietly.”
Sheridan eyed her sister like she would a beautiful snake. “Nobody was invited except those people I worked with, and only because we needed two witnesses.”
“Yeah.” Her voice caught. “The thing is, I loved Bram.”
“You loved Bram. This is a news flash? What’s that got to do with anything?”
“Just let me get through this.”
She blinked at the rare sight of Calissa weeping.
“Before you met Eliot, I loved Bram. For crying out loud, I loved Bram in high school! We were best friends and he married what’s-her-face because he thought he should. It was all about ridiculous old-world family ties and expectations. Anyway, I was busy with my career. I had no time to be a wife. Not that he asked me.” A tear trickled out of the corner of her eye. “Then you got married, lickety-split. It was too fast. You didn’t know him well enough. I certainly didn’t, and you were my charge. Still. On top of it all, you threw away your career to follow him. They loved you at the school and the association. And all those women you helped in the programs. You were at the top of your game, and it wasn’t volleyball. I just wanted so much more for you.”
“Liss, how much more could I ask for? Eliot gave me the world to work in. Things were changing on the campus here. You knew that. There were cutbacks with the programs. Students with a passion for the work didn’t exist anymore, at least not in my classes.”
“I know.” Tears pooled now in her eyes. “Oh, Sher, I was just jealous. That’s all. You were in love and the guy married you. I was in love and the guy married someone else.”
“Jealous?”
“Yeah. Pretty lame, huh? Instead of being happy for you, I got jealous. I’m more like Dad than I realize: totally dim-witted when it comes to matters of the heart.”
If not for Calissa’s tears, Sheridan might have wholeheartedly agreed. Instead, she said, “No, Liss. Totally dim-witted is living in a town without phone service.” She reached over and squeezed her sister’s arm. “You still love him, and he loves you.”
Calissa smiled sadly and nodded.
“It’s going to be okay, Liss.”
Mesa Aguamiel
Eliot sat again in the kitchen of Mercedes’s aunt, at the small dinette table, the black telephone receiver in his hand. Again Padre Miguel and the aunt’s family waited outside. Again he listened to Sheridan’s recorded voice. “Hi, it’s me.” Again he hung up.
One of the first things he had noticed about Sheridan was the way her voice lilted, especially when she laughed. What struck him now was that he heard it . . . and the fact that he hadn’t heard it in a long, long time.
He imagined her recording the message, perhaps thinking with a smile how absurd to identify herself when the voice mail would most likely not be heard by anyone. Although she said she would carry it just in case Mercedes or her aunt Maria called, or in case he made the trip to Mesa Aguamiel during her short visit. Clearly she did not think it would be used. Was that why her voice did its little singsong?
But wait. Wouldn’t she be using the phone now, in the States? to communicate with Traynor? Did that explain the lilt? Or was it because Luke Traynor had been there showing her how to record the greeting?
Eliot removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes. He was not a jealous man. What he and Sheridan had between them was a deep mutual respect and devotion, already ancient, it seemed, on the night they met. His relationship with her was nothing like his with Noelle, his first wife. And Traynor carried no threat. The short man was not even Sheridan’s type.
“Good heavens,” he muttered to himself. “Now I’ve been transported back to adolescence.”
The problem was that the day had reduced him to a state of agitation. He was not himself.
Movement caught his attention. He replaced his glasses and looked toward the open front door. If that man came inside and asked if he’d left a message . . .
What? What would he do? Burst into frustrated tears?
“Good heavens,” he said again. He turned his back to the door, picked up the receiver, and called the overseas operator.
“Hi, it’s me,” Sheridan’s voice trilled once more.
Eliot gritted his teeth. Did she sing because she was away from him? away from the life neither of them wanted?
“Hi,” he breathed into the phone. “It’s me. At, uh, Tia Maria’s. Yes, I am as surprised as you. But it has been a most unpleasant day. Yet here I am, talking to a voice mail. Now that’s something I haven’t done in over a year.”
She was always on him about trying something new, like walking farther or extending physical therapy times. He wondered if this counted.
“Padre Miguel drove us here. You might want to say a prayer for our safe return. He’s as scatterbrained behind the wheel as he is in conversation.” Eliot paused. “But he always has a point in his speech, doesn’t he? It’s just not immediately evident.
“About the day. It was a spontaneous decision to drive over here. More like spontaneous combustion with the padre. Are his sermons like that? Well, at any rate, I had no idea there were errands to be done. First off, we went to his friend’s hardware shop that carries an assortment of canes. Long story short, not one was long enough for me, but this chap is quite handy. He extended two of them and attached a sort of three-legged prong at the end of each, for stability. They work rather well. So far. Nowhere near as confining as those crutches we investigated.
“Padre Miguel wanted to leave me there while he went about some other business, but I was concerned he might forget about me. You know how scatterbrained he can be. He talks about how he lives according to God’s clock, which I do believe in him resembles that attention disorder. What is it? ADD?
“So we went about town and purchased some glazes for Javier and a few things for Mercedes. She was low on flour and sugar. And I found a colorful apron for her. You know how she always tucks a dishtowel in her waistband. I hope she likes it.
“We stopped for tea. Padre wanted a beer, but thankfully I was able to talk him out of that. I said we still have the ride home to think about. He saw my point. Obviously I haven’t done a lick of writing today.
“I should apologize for all this nonsensical chatter. I seem to have an attack of logorrhea. It’s been going on most of the day. We can safely assume it’s the influence of the priest.
“I hope the rain has stopped for you. The dreariness used to bother you. And, Sher, I have been very concerned about you in Chicago. I told him how frightened you’ve been of crowded city streets since the incident. He’s praying for you.
“Well, good-bye. We will see you soon.”
Eliot hung up the phone, laid his glasses on the table, and pressed against his eyes. The tears seeped out anyway.
He recalled the lilting way Sheridan had laughed. “Eliot.”
It was August, about a month before they married. They sat outdoors at a French café in D.C. He had just delivered to her a scathing review of some newspaper’s editorial about the U.S. president visiting in Latin America.
“What?” he said.
She covered his hand with hers on the table. “I adore your monologues.”
“Tommyrot.”
“No, it’s true.”
“I apologize.”
“Don’t.”
He studied those dark brown eyes. Gold flecks danced in them. “I can talk a blue streak about folderol, but I stumble over the most important words and even avoid them altogether.”
Her expression softened into one of tenderness.
“I do love you, Sher.” It was the first time he’d uttered the phrase.
“I know.”
He nearly cried for joy.
It was more than male obtuseness. He’d never had a problem telling Noelle how much he loved her.
But then she died.
No. Then she found someone else, wanted out of the marriage, drove off in anger, and died.
That was where his
I love you
went.
Eliot put his glasses back on and folded his hands.
After Sheridan’s endearing comment about his monologues, he had told her that tidbit about Noelle. Ten years into their marriage, Noelle no longer wanted to be married. She had decided that she was, after all, a West Coast woman at heart and needed someone of like mind who craved American soil—in particular Sonoma County soil, where the other man owned a vineyard. The overseas adventure was over for her.
Now and then he professed his love to Sheridan. Probably not often enough. Of all times, though, he should have just now, even if it would have been in a silly voice mail.
Wilmette
Sheridan awoke slowly, not wanting to leave her dream. A sense of deep contentment filled her. She smiled. Eliot had been in the dream, and they’d been making love.
The pleasantness ebbed. She noted the dark room, the plushy blanket that covered her, the chilled air. Her cheeks felt crusted, her eyes all dried out.
She hadn’t shared a bed with Eliot in over a year.
How she hated waking up, especially after vivid dreams of Eliot in B.C.E. form like this one. She would see him walking or laughing or hosting a diplomatic event or caressing her. Then, every time, even before her eyes were fully open, reality crept in and she would have to recall that Eliot no longer did any of those things, that she no longer did much of anything beyond seeing that he was kept as comfortable as possible.
And now . . . now there was more to remember upon waking. She was in Chicago. Eliot was not. She was facing a major crisis. Her father had committed crimes, perhaps high treason. She trusted Eliot. She needed him right now.
She jerked upright and turned on the small lamp. She’d fallen asleep and must have slept through the evening. It wasn’t yet midnight. She still wore her oversize shirt and stretchy pants.
She wondered if Luke was still awake.
The big old house was cavernous and drafty year-round, like a mausoleum. Sheridan draped the plushy blanket around her shoulders and hurried from her bedroom and down the staircase. Voices came from the direction of the kitchen.
She stepped into the brightly lit room. Three pairs of eyes turned toward her. Not only was Luke awake but so were Bram and Calissa.