Message in a Bottle (26 page)

“I’m not afraid,” Garrett protested.

His father cut him off sharply. “You can’t even admit it to yourself, can you?”

The disappointment in his tone was unmistakable. “You know, Garrett, when your mom died, I made excuses, too. Over the years, I told myself all sorts of things. And you wanna know where it got me?”

He stared at his son. “I’m old and tired, and most of all, I’m alone. If I could go back in time, I’d change a lot about myself, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to let you do the same things I did.”

Jeb paused before going on, his tone softening. “I was wrong, Garrett. I was wrong not to try to find someone else. I was wrong to feel guilty about your mom. I was wrong to keep living my life the way I did, always suffering inside and wondering what she would have thought. Because you know what? I think your mom would have wanted me to find someone else. Your mom would have wanted me to be happy. And you know why?”

Garrett didn’t answer.

“Because she loved me. And if you think that you’re showing your love to Catherine by suffering the way you’ve been doing, then somewhere along the way, I must have messed up in raising you.”

“You didn’t mess up. . . .”

“I must have. Because when I look at you, I see myself, and to be honest, I’d rather see someone different. I’d like to see someone who learned that it’s okay to go on, that it’s okay to find someone that can make you happy. But right now, it’s like I’m looking in the mirror and seeing myself twenty years ago.”

*  *  *

Garrett spent the rest of the afternoon alone, walking on the beach, thinking about what his father had said. Looking back, he knew he’d been dishonest from the start of the conversation and wasn’t surprised that his father had figured it out. Why, then, had he wanted to talk to him? Had he wanted his father to confront him as he had?

As the afternoon wore on, his depression gave way to confusion, then to a sort of numbness. By the time he called Theresa later in the evening, the feelings of betrayal he’d felt as a result of the dream had subsided enough to speak with her. They were still there, though not as strong, and when she answered the phone, he felt them diminish even further. The sound of her voice reminded him of the way he felt when they were together.

“I’m glad you called,” she said cheerfully, “I thought a lot about you today.”

“I thought about you, too,” he said. “I wish you were here right now.”

“Are you okay? You sound a little down.”

“I’m fine. . . . Just lonely that’s all. How was your day?”

“Typical. Too much to do at work, too much to do at home. But it’s better now that I’ve heard from you.”

Garrett smiled. “Is Kevin around?”

“He’s in his room reading a book about scuba diving. He tells me he wants to be a dive instructor when he grows up.”

“Where could he have gotten that idea?”

“I haven’t the slightest,” she said, amusement in her tone. “How about you? What did you do today?”

“Not much, actually. I didn’t go into the shop—I sort of took the day off and wandered the beaches.”

“Dreaming about me, I hope?”

The irony of her comment was not lost on him. He didn’t answer directly.

“I just really missed you today.”

“I’ve only been gone a few days,” she said gently.

“I know. And speaking of that, when will we get to see each other again?”

Theresa sat at the dining room table and glanced at her Day-Timer.

“Umm . . . how about in three weeks? I was thinking that maybe you could come up here this time. Kevin has a week-long soccer camp, and we’d be able to spend some time alone.”

“Would you like to come down here instead?”

“It would be better if you came up here, if that’s okay. I’m running low on vacation days, and I think we’d be able to work around my schedule. And besides, I think it’s about time you got out of North Carolina, just so you can see what the rest of the country has to offer.”

As she spoke, he found himself staring at Catherine’s picture on the nightstand. It took him a few seconds to respond. “Sure . . . I guess I could do that.”

“You don’t sound too sure about it.”

“I am.”

“Is there something else, then?”

“No.”

She paused uncertainly. “Are you really okay, Garrett?”

*  *  *

It took him a few days and several phone calls to Theresa to feel somewhat normal again. More than once he found himself calling her late in the evening, just to hear her voice.

“Hey,” he’d say, “it’s me again.”

“Hi, Garrett, what’s up?” she’d ask sleepily.

“Not much. I just wanted to say good night before you crawled into bed.”

“I’m already in bed.”

“What time is it?”

She glanced toward the clock. “Almost midnight.”

“Why are you awake? You should be sleeping,” he’d tease, and then he’d let her hang up the phone so she could get her rest.

Sometimes, if he couldn’t sleep, he’d think about his week with Theresa, remembering how good her skin felt to his touch, overwhelmed by his desire to hold her again.

Then, walking into the bedroom, he’d see Catherine’s picture by his bed. And at that moment the dream would rush forward with crystal clarity.

He knew he was still unsettled by the dream. In the past he would have written a letter to Catherine to help him get it into perspective. Then, taking Happenstance out on the same route he and Catherine had sailed for the first time after Happenstance had been restored, he’d seal it and toss it into the ocean.

Strangely, he wasn’t able to do it this time. When he sat down to write, the words simply wouldn’t come. Finally growing frustrated, he willed himself to remember, instead.

“Now there’s a surprise,” Garrett said as he pointed at Catherine’s plate. On it, she was piling spinach salad from the buffet in front of them.

Catherine shrugged dismissively. “What’s wrong with wanting a salad?”

“Nothing’s wrong with it,” he said quickly. “It’s just that this is the third time you’ve eaten it this week.”

“I know. I’ve just been craving it. I don’t know why.”

“If you keep eating it like you do, you’re going to turn into a rabbit.”

She laughed and poured on the salad dressing. “If that were the case,” she said, looking at his plate, “if you keep eating that seafood, you’ll turn into a shark.”

“I am a shark,” he said, raising his eyebrows.

“You may be a shark, but if you keep teasing me, you’ll never get the chance to prove it with me.”

He smiled. “Why don’t I prove it this weekend?”

“When? You’ll be working this weekend.”

“Not this weekend. Believe it or not, I’ve cleared my schedule so that we can spend some time together. We haven’t spent a whole weekend alone since I don’t know when.”

“What did you have in mind?”

“I don’t know. Maybe sailing, maybe something else. Whatever you want to do.”

She laughed. “Well, I did have big plans—my trip to Paris for a little shopping, a quick safari or two . . . but I guess I can rearrange things.”

“Then it’s a date.”

*  *  *

As the days passed, the image of the dream began to fade. Each time Garrett talked to Theresa, he found himself feeling a little more renewed. He also spoke to Kevin a couple of times, and his enthusiasm for Garrett’s presence in their lives helped him regain his footing as well. Even though the heat and humidity of August seemed to make time pass more slowly than usual, he kept himself as busy as he could, doing his best not to think about the complexities of his new situation.

Two weeks later—a few days before he was leaving for Boston—Garrett was cooking in the kitchen when the phone rang.

“Hiya, stranger,” she said. “Got a few minutes?”

“I always have a few minutes to talk when it comes to you.”

“I was just calling to find out what time your flight is coming in. You weren’t sure the last time we talked.”

“Hold on,” he said, rummaging through the kitchen drawer for his itinerary. “Here it is—I’ll be getting into Boston a few minutes after one.”

“That works out perfectly. I’ve got to drop Kevin off a few hours earlier, and it’ll give me time to get the apartment in shape.”

“Cleaning up for me?”

“You get the full treatment. I’m even going to dust.”

“I feel honored.”

“You should. Only you and my parents get that kind of attention.”

“Should I pack a pair of white gloves to make sure you’ve done a good job?”

“If you do, you won’t live to see the evening.”

He laughed and changed the subject. “I’m looking forward to seeing you again,” he said earnestly. “These last three weeks were a lot harder than the first two.”

“I know. I could hear it in your voice. You were really down for a few days, and . . . well, I was beginning to get worried about you.”

He wondered whether she suspected the reason for his melancholy. Clearing his mind, he went on. “I was, but I’m over it now. I’ve already packed my bags.”

“I hope you didn’t take up any space with unnecessary items.”

“Like what?”

“Like . . . I don’t know . . . pajamas.”

He laughed. “I don’t own any pajamas.”

“That’s good. Because even if you did, you wouldn’t need them.”

*  *  *

Three days later, Garrett Blake arrived in Boston.

After picking him up from the airport, Theresa showed him around the city. They had lunch at Faneuil Hall, watched the skullers gliding on the Charles River, and took a quick tour of the Harvard campus. As usual, they held hands most of the day, reveling in each other’s company.

More than once, Garrett found himself wondering why the last three weeks had been so difficult for him. He knew that part of his anxiety stemmed from the dream, but spending time with Theresa made the dream’s troubling feelings seem distant and insubstantial. Every time Theresa laughed or squeezed his hand, she reaffirmed the feelings he’d had when she was last in Wilmington, banishing the dark thoughts that plagued him in her absence.

When the day began to cool and the sun dipped below the trees, Theresa and Garrett stopped for some Mexican food to bring back to her apartment. Sitting on her living room floor in the glow of candlelight, Garrett looked around the room.

“You have a nice place,” he said, forking up some beans with a tortilla chip. “For some reason, I thought it would be smaller than it is. It’s bigger than my house.”

“Only by a little, but thanks. It works for us. It’s real convenient to everything.”

“Like restaurants?”

“Exactly. I wasn’t kidding when I told you I didn’t like to cook. I’m not exactly Martha Stewart.”

“Who?”

“Never mind,” she said.

Outside her apartment, the sound of traffic was clearly audible. A car screeched on the street below, a horn blared, and all at once the air was filled with noise as other cars joined in the chorus.

“Is it always this quiet?” he asked.

She nodded toward the windows. “Friday and Saturday nights are the worst—usually it’s not so bad. But you get used to it if you live here long enough.”

The sounds of city living continued. A siren blared in the distance, growing steadily louder as it approached.

“Would you like to put on some music?” Garrett asked.

“Sure. What kind do you like?”

“I like both kinds,” he said, pausing dramatically. “Country and western.”

She laughed. “I don’t have anything like that here.”

He shook his head, enjoying his own joke. “I was kidding, anyway. It’s an old line. Not too funny, but I’ve been waiting for my chance to say it for years.”

“You must have watched a lot of Hee-Haw as a kid.”

Now it was his turn to laugh.

“Back to my original question—what kind of music do you like?” she persisted.

“Anything you have is fine.”

“How about some jazz?”

“Sounds good.”

Theresa got up and chose something she thought he might like and slipped it into the CD player. In a few moments the music started, just as the traffic congestion outside seemed to clear.

“So what do you think of Boston so far?” she asked, reclaiming her seat.

“I like it. For a big city, it’s not too bad. It doesn’t seem as impersonal as I thought it would be, and it’s cleaner, too. I guess I pictured it differently. You know—crowds, asphalt, tall buildings, not a tree in sight, and muggers on every corner. But it’s not like that at all.”

She smiled. “It is nice, isn’t it? I mean, it’s not beachfront, but it has its own appeal. Especially if you consider what the city has to offer. You could go to the symphony, or to museums, or just stroll around in the Commons. There’s something for everyone here—they even have a sailing club.”

“I can see why you like it here,” he said, wondering why it sounded as if she were selling the place.

“I do. And Kevin likes it, too.”

He changed the subject: “You said he’s at soccer camp?”

She nodded. “Yeah. He’s trying out for an all-star team for twelve and under. I don’t know if he’ll make it, but he thinks he has a pretty good shot. Last year, he made the final cut as an eleven-year-old.”

“It sounds like he’s good.”

“He is,” she said with a nod. She pushed their now empty plates to the side and moved closer. “But enough about Kevin,” she said softly. “We don’t always have to talk about him. We can talk about other things, you know.”

“Like what?”

She kissed his neck. “Like what I want to do with you now that I have you all to myself.”

“Are you sure you just want to talk about it?”

“You’re right,” she whispered. “Who wants to talk at a time like this?”

*  *  *

The next day, Theresa again took Garrett on a tour of Boston, spending most of the morning in the Italian neighborhoods of the North End, wandering the narrow, twisting streets and stopping for the occasional cannoli and coffee. Though Garrett knew she wrote columns for the paper, he didn’t know exactly what else her job entailed. He asked her about it as they made their way leisurely through the city.

“Can’t you write a column from your home?”

“In time, I suppose I can. But right now, it’s not possible.”