This Time Forever (16 page)

“My wife used to do that before she would leave the piano,” he said suddenly, staring at the piano as though someone still sat there.

“She played?” Rebekka asked as she lowered the top lid to keep the dust out of the piano’s interior. The wood was heavy and she thought he might help her, but he was lost in his reverie. “I mean, I wondered if . . . since none of the rest of you seemed to play . . .”

He made a strangled sound that bit into Rebekka’s heart. “I guess it must seem funny, us having a grand piano when nobody plays.” He continued to stare at the Steinway. “But it’s not too odd. Many people I know have them for looks, or for guests.”

A rather expensive knickknack,
Rebekka thought.

“Charlotte did play.” His voice had taken on a rough note that conveyed a deep tenderness. “We had another piano, though, that she mostly used. I bought her this one right before she became pregnant with Belle. Charlotte had been diagnosed with cancer—that was the first time she was diagnosed with it. I wanted to cheer her up. It’s one of only a hundred made—of this style—and even back then it cost over a hundred thousand. She loved it so much. She went into remission shortly after. I sometimes wonder if the piano didn’t help with her recovery.”

“It brings good memories, then.”

He met her eyes for the first time since he had started talking about his wife. “Yes, it really does. Hearing you play does, too. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” Growing uncomfortable under his continuing gaze, she added, “I can get you that man’s card, if you like.”

He followed her up the main staircase to her room and waited in the doorway while she rummaged through her purse. “Here it is.” She crossed the room and handed the rumpled card to him. His hand felt warm against hers, but for some reason she shivered. Damon looked at the card and stuck it in the pocket of his pale green button-down shirt.

Rebekka could feel his closeness, and her need for companionship seemed more intense than she could bear. The words from Marc’s e-mail came back to her: “. . . you have always known what you want and haven’t let anything stand in your way.” Without thinking, she moved closer to Damon and fixed her eyes on his.

“Damon, I—I’d like to get to know you better,” she said, and held her breath for his reaction.

His face wore a puzzled expression that quickly turned into acute embarrassment. Rebekka felt herself cringe inside, as she always did when Marc hadn’t responded to her hints.

“I—I didn’t know . . . I always thought of you as so much y— . . . I mean, I’m flattered. Really.” He stopped talking and searched her face for a long moment before continuing. “You’re very beautiful, Rebekka, but I’m so much older.”

Rebekka took an even breath. “I’m not a child, Damon. I still mean what I said.”

His face showed amazement and disbelief as Rebekka closed the final step between them. She could smell his aftershave, and even the trace of detergent in his shirt. His eyes didn’t leave hers. Watching him carefully, she kissed him.

She had meant it to be a brief kiss, something that perhaps two friends—she and Marc?—might exchange, but she wasn’t prepared for the celerity and fervency of his response. His lips pressed hard against hers, filled with thinly disguised passion . . . searching . . . searching . . .

She pulled away, her eyes wide. There was a need in his face, a need she felt strongly echoed in her own heart. “You . . .” She wanted to say that she understood about losing a loved one, about wanting to be with another person who cared about you. Yet how could her feelings compare to the loneliness he must feel at having lost his wife, the beloved mother of his children?

Damon leaned against the doorframe, watching her with half-veiled eyes. “Rebekka.” His voice was warm. “I’m still flattered. And surprised, mostly at myself. You see, there is this woman in Anchorage—on Kodiak Island, actually—and I love her. She’s the first woman I’ve ever cared about since Char—Charlotte—died. But she loves her husband, and I want them to be happy. She’s the real reason I left Alaska.” He chuckled in self-deprecation. “I was prepared to be the martyr, you know, the sufferer of an unrequited love. I guess I even reveled in the whole idea a bit. But you have shown me something tonight.” He took her hand, smiling. “You have shown me that the world is a beautiful place with wonderful surprises. Thank you.”

He pulled her forward a few inches and kissed her chastely on the lips, a kiss that held none of the vibrancy of their first encounter but was much more appropriate given their level of involvement. His blond moustache tickled her skin. “I would enjoy getting to know you better, too, Rebekka.”

She smiled, trying to digest all the information he’d given her. He was a man with a twice-broken heart, but he wasn’t afraid to accept an opportunity to search for love again.
If only Marc—

“Good.” She winked at him. “I’ll let you take me to dinner tomorrow.”

His grin grew wider. “It’s a deal. But it’ll have to be next Friday, because I promised Belle I’d take her to the movies tomorrow.”

“Okay. Next Friday, then.”

“Do you want to choose the place, or shall I?” His eyes seemed to sparkle with enjoyment.

She accepted the unvoiced challenge. “I’ll choose.”

He released his grip on her hand, and Rebekka took a few steps into her room. Damon flashed her another grin. “Until tomorrow.”

She watched him walk down the hall, headed toward the far wing of the house where he and Belle had their rooms. The silence without him was almost deafening, although she was accustomed to being alone at night. Tanner slept in the basement, where the new cook and the maid had their quarters. Damon had refused to let him stay in the empty room near Rebekka, for which she had been very thankful.

Why, then, did she feel so alone now?

She brought a hand to her lips, recalling their first kiss and wondering at the intensity of it. “I need to tell Brionney not to set him up with her sister,” she murmured aloud.

Rebekka closed the door and went to the desk where her laptop sat. She pushed the button to bring it to life, and then rapidly added an extra line to her e-mail to Marc before sending it.

P.S. Tonight Damon kissed me.

What would he make of that? Would he feel as devastated as she had when he was dating that woman he’d almost asked to marry him?

No, of course, not.

As she lay in bed, sleep wouldn’t come. Her mind went over the events of the day in a continuous cycle. Despite her pleasant time with Damon, it was Marc’s letter that stood at the heart of her sleeplessness.

He was right when he said I knew what I wanted in life. I have always achieved every goal—except to marry him.

Her only failure. The thing that meant the most to her. What did all her achievements mean without a soul mate to share them with?

“I will not cry for him.” Her voice was a tortured whisper in the darkness of her room.

She forced her thoughts to Damon. Tonight he’d responded to her kiss. She didn’t fool herself that his passion had been for her, but at least he’d begun to see her as a woman. Damon had been in love and had lost, but he was ready to move on—a point of maturity that Marc had never reached.

She, too, was ready to move on.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Weeks stretched into months for Mickelle, and she hardly realized their passing. More and more, she found it difficult to get out of bed. The boys took care of themselves quite well and didn’t need her except for the occasional dinner. They spent most of their time playing with cousins or friends. Their grandmother and aunts took care of Jeremy’s ninth birthday in August, buying him everything on his list except the motorcycle he’d seen in a magazine. Brionney even made him a cake and took him roller skating.

Mickelle didn’t register for college as she’d planned, using her lack of money as an excuse. It was true she didn’t have funds, but she could have received financial aid—if she could have brought herself to fill out the papers.

The lack of money was a constant source of pressure. Riley’s life insurance company had continued to refuse payment of the hundred thousand dollars she’d expected. The suicide clause was in effect for two years after purchase of the policy, and Riley had died three weeks too soon.

At times when she was feeling perverse, Mickelle laughed at the irony of the situation. Three weeks more, and she and the kids would have been taken care of.
It’s just like him. A responsible husband would have waited three weeks before killing himself.
Then she would cry. She cried a lot. Sometimes she wondered where all the tears came from.

An ocean of tears.

A universe of tears.

All her dreams gone.

Donations from family, friends, and neighbors had buried Riley and paid immediate bills. Now she lived off a slim social security check. She knew she needed a job to make life good for the boys, but she simply couldn’t find it in herself to do anything.

Her house was a mess—four months’ worth of mess. Each morning she awoke to Jeremy’s wet bed, new mounds of dirty clothes, and trash that needed to be taken outside. Books, toys, and games were on counters, floors, beds, and even the couch. She’d learned to overlook it all. Who cared about any of it? Not her. She did nothing about the housework, except for the flecks of burnt toast the boys scraped off their toast when they forgot and left it too long in the broken toaster. The black flecks stuck to the wet parts of the sink, covered the light-yellow countertops, and speckled the floor. She exerted herself enough to wipe them up, but silently berated the boys for not cleaning up after themselves, and herself for not making them.

It was easier to stay in bed.

“Mom! Mom!” A voice penetrated Mickelle’s sleepy brain. Jeremy rushed into her room. “Are you going to take me to school, or should I walk? Bryan says I gotta walk, but that I have to go with someone. Is that right?”

Mickelle blinked at him. What was he talking about?

He put his hands on her shoulders and looked directly into her eyes. “It’s school,” he explained patiently. “Today’s the first day.”

“What? Oh, yeah.”

Mickelle swung her feet out of bed. “I’ll take you both. Are you ready?”

“Yes, I took a bath like you said.” He grimaced, and Mickelle felt guilty. She wished there was some way she could help him overcome his problem of wetting the bed. “And I’m wearing the new clothes Grandma bought me.”

Mickelle hadn’t known her mother had bought him clothes, but seeing his cheerful face, she was glad someone had. “Did you eat?”

“Uh-huh. Cereal. Can we go now?”

She glanced at the clock. “You have an hour and a half before you need to leave. You’re on second track so you don’t have to be there till nine-fifteen. But you can come with me while I take Bryan. Let me get dressed, and I’ll be right out.” Five minutes passed while she hunted in a pile of black clothing for a pair of relatively clean black jeans and a black shirt with tiny white buttons. In the bathroom, she dragged a comb through her limp hair.

Bryan eyed her with relief when she emerged from the bedroom. “I thought Jeremy would have to go alone.”

“I know the way,” Jeremy said.

“You’re too little to go by yourself.”

Jeremy threw his brother a scathing look. “Don’t worry about me.”

“I just meant you should go with Mom or your friends.”

“I’m big enough!”

“Are not!”

“Mom! Bryan’s being mean!”

“I wasn’t trying to be mean, stupid.” Bryan banged his open hand on the counter. “Ooh! You make me so mad!”

Wouldn’t they ever be quiet? All they did was chatter constantly, whether fighting or playing, leaving her no room to think her own thoughts. Their young voices had never bothered her before, but since Riley. . .

“Bryan’s right, Jeremy,” Mickelle interjected, forcing her thoughts away from her husband. “If you walk, you have to walk with somebody, same as last year. But I can take you in the Snail today.”

“The Snail?” Jeremy asked, puzzled.

Bryan laughed. “The station wagon. Mom, that’s too funny! It does drive like a snail.”

“I get it,” said Jeremy, grinning.

“Don’t you have to be to school by eight?” Mickelle asked Bryan.

“Eight-fifteen.” He glanced at the door. “I want to ride the bus with my friends. We planned to go together.”

The first day of junior high school. Mickelle understood. “That’s fine. But behave yourself.”

Bryan took a step toward the door and then paused, looking at her carefully. “You gonna be okay, Mom? I mean, you’re not depressed, are you?”

He looked so much like Riley that she had to force a smile. Not Riley during the bad times, but Riley when things were good between them, when his love had shone through his insecurities. “I’m fine. Don’t worry about me. Now get going.” She kissed his cheek and he ran out the door, a new dark blue backpack over his shoulder. Another present from her parents, most likely.

“I don’t want to walk.” Jeremy began to organize his school supplies.

“But you told Bryan you did.”

“No, I said I knew the way. I just don’t like him acting like I’m a baby. I’m not five or six—or seven anymore.”

“He’s just worried about you.”

Jeremy’s eyes stared into hers. “Can’t you go with me today, Mom? I mean to school. Can’t you stay there?”

“No.” Mickelle took a bowl from one of the old dark cupboards that were caked with grime so thick in spots that she could scrape it off with her fingernail. In fact, scraping was the only way to remove the thirty years of greasy buildup; washing the cupboards simply wasn’t enough. She had always planned to replace them, but how could she now?

“But what if you miss me?”

“Then I’ll come see you.”

“You’re not going anywhere, are you?”

Mickelle finally perceived his worry. School was their first extended separation since Riley had died. One parent had left and never returned, and he was afraid of losing her, just as Bryan was. She sat on a kitchen chair and drew his thin figure into her arms. “Jeremy. I’m not ever going to leave you. Not if I have anything to say about it. And you’re going to have so much fun in the fourth grade that you’ll hardly know how the day went so fast.”