More Than You Know (18 page)

Read More Than You Know Online

Authors: Nan Rossiter

Tags: #Fiction, #Romance, #General, #Family Life

BOOK: More Than You Know
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25
“W
ho wants a margarita?” Isak called as she slid her Mexican dip into the microwave. Three hands went up, but this time Charlotte’s wasn’t one of them.
 
After Micah and Beryl had dropped the boxes off at the thrift store, they’d brought Charlotte back to his parents’ house, where Beryl had the chance to thank—and hug—his mom. While they were there, she also noticed a sour cream coffee cake cooling on a rack and two trays of lasagna under construction. “These probably won’t be as good as your mom’s,” Maddie had said with a smile, “but they’ll taste pretty good to a hungry crowd.”
“I can’t thank you enough, Mrs. Coleman,” Beryl had said.
“You’re welcome, hon,” Maddie had replied. “I’m not the only one cooking though, so I hope you have room in your fridge.”
 
“What’s the ratio of tequila to limeade?” Rumer asked, filling their old blender with ice.
“Oh, I don’t know—I usually just dump and taste,” Isak said, pulling the white strip of plastic off the limeade can and lifting off the top.
“Dump and taste—hmm, I’d like to see those directions in a cookbook.”
Isak laughed. “Well, sometimes I use a shot glass, but I don’t think Mum has one.”
“Yes, she does,” Beryl called from the porch.
“Where?”
“In the cabinet, behind the glasses.”
Rumer moved the glasses and found an old, tall shot glass in the back corner.
Meanwhile, Isak half-dumped, half-measured the ingredients and turned the blender on high while Rumer ran a lime around the rims of four goblets and then spun the rims in a small saucer of salt. Isak tasted the frosty mixture, added a little more tequila, blended it again, smacked her lips approvingly, and poured. Then she pulled the hot, cheesy dip from the microwave and brought it out on the porch with a big bowl of chips. Rumer followed with two glasses. “It’s all right, Ber,” she teased, handing her sister and Micah each a glass. “We’ll just serve you.”
“That’s the way it should be,” Beryl said with a grin. She reached for a chip. “We’re not going to need wraps tonight. This dip could be dinner!” she said, taking a bite. “Mmmm, and I’m going to need the recipe!”
“It’s so easy,” Isak said, lighting the candles on the porch as Rumer brought out two more glasses and they all settled into chairs within easy reach of the dip.
Beryl took a sip, licked her lips, and looked around. “Ready?” They all nodded . . .
I continued to watch his eyes and I was amazed by his focus—it truly seemed that he really only saw curves and shapes . . . shadows and light. If he was aroused, I couldn’t tell—his jeans were loose-fitting and unrevealing, and I wondered if I was enjoying looking at him more than he was enjoying looking at me. I continued to watch him until he finally asked, “Want to see?” I nodded, pulled the robe around me, and walked over to stand beside him.
“Oh, David,” I said quietly. “I don’t know what to say. It’s exquisite.” I couldn’t believe it was me—lying there looking so seductive—but it was!
“Do you really like it?” he asked, searching my eyes.
“I love it!”
He looked away. “Oh, Mia, if you only knew . . .”
I stepped forward, standing between his legs as he sat on his stool. “Knew what?” I asked, touching his thighs. He gently held my face in his hands, and I closed my eyes and felt his lips brush lightly against my lashes and my cheeks, slowly searching until his warm mouth found mine.
When we pulled apart, he had tears in his eyes. “What’s the matter?” I asked, my heart pounding.
“Mia, don’t you know?!” he said, shaking his head. “I’m in love with you. I want you so much my whole body aches . . . but I’m married—married to a woman I don’t love—and who doesn’t love me. And nothing on this earth can change that. In the eyes of God, I will always be married.” He brushed back a tear. “What do I do?”
I looked down and slowly pulled one end of the soft terry-cloth belt and watched his face as it came undone. He reached out and gently pushed back the robe, his eyes taking me in as if it was the first time he’d ever seen me.
“I wanted your hand here,” he said, pressing my hand against my abdomen and sending a rush of heat through my body. I nodded and he slowly stood, shifting his weight to his good leg and moving my hands to his hips. He pulled me against him and I felt how aroused he was . . . and he kissed me again—tasting, teasing—and slid his hands inside the robe.
In the years that followed, I’ve replayed the memory of that night over and over—savoring each moment, feeling his gentle touch, seeing his body in the candlelight, watching our bodies become intertwined . . . and aching to relive those moments again. Sadly, that’s how life is—the moments are fleeting—in the next breath, they are just memories. And, at the end of our lives, we are left with only that—a collection of memories to warm our hearts, to give us direction, and to offer us a safe haven when the storms of life are overwhelming. But some don’t even have that.
I stayed with David the following night, too, and as I lay beside him in the darkness, feeling the warmth of his body against mine, he opened up about his past.
His father, he said, had been an abusive drunk whose rage was most often directed at his mother. He couldn’t remember a time when it hadn’t been that way—and he couldn’t forget the pain and fear he saw in his mother’s cheerful eyes whenever his father came home. Finally, one night when he was sixteen, his father came in, looking for dinner, and when it wasn’t ready, he began shouting at her. He started to push her around the kitchen; then he slapped her so hard she crumpled to the floor. David saw everything, ran to her, and, in a protective rage, turned and swung at his father with all his might. He landed a punch to his father’s jaw that broke his hand and sent his father reeling, but when he regained his feet, he seethed, “Get the hell out of this house!” But David defiantly refused and his father pushed him toward the open door, causing him to stumble and fall backward down the stairs. His father stormed down after him, kicking him as he stepped over his body. “That’ll teach ya, ya son of a bitch!” David had writhed in pain—his ankle folded unnaturally under him.
His father never came home again—and two weeks later, they found his body floating in the Thames. There was no evidence of foul play, and the police were never able to determine if he had committed suicide or accidently drowned.
David was laid up for months. He dropped out of school and, when he was finally able to get around, he looked for work so he could help his mum pay the bills; but his ankle was never quite right, and no one was interested in hiring a cripple. One day, he saw a Help Wanted sign in the window of a pub in Piccadilly Circus. He leaned his cane in a crook outside and went in—trying his best not to limp. He convinced the owner that he knew how to bartend—
after all,
he thought,
how hard could it be to serve pints of ale and shots of whiskey?
The owner was skeptical—but desperate—and hired him on the spot.
It wasn’t long before the pretty blonde he’d seen hanging around the pub driving the busboys crazy came over and introduced herself. Catherine Walker—five years his senior—was the pub owner’s daughter and she’d set her sights on the slender, young man with the solemn dark eyes who tucked a cane under the bar when he worked. Catherine was a good listener, and young David Gilead was lonely. After the pub closed one night, they had a few pints at the bar and he walked her back to her one-bedroom flat on Regent Street.
A month later, Catherine pretended to weep as she revealed to him that she was pregnant, and the next day, her father informed David that he would be marrying his daughter. David never believed he was the father—he knew, for a fact, that Catherine had been with several of the pub’s patrons, but when he suggested the possibility, her father’s face had turned a menacing shade of red. “My daughter was raised in the Catholic Church—and she was as innocent as a lamb before you came along, you bastard. She will not be disgraced! If you ever want to work in this godforsaken town again, you’ll heed my warning!” A month later, Catherine and David were married in a small, quiet ceremony in St. James’s Church. And two months after that, she miscarried.
In his free time, David began to attend life drawing sessions. He had a natural eye for composition, and he quickly learned the importance of light and shadow. The most rewarding discovery, however, was the peace it gave him. One day, an art buyer happened to stop by the studio where the sessions were held. David was cleaning up his area when the gentleman stood in front of his drawing and, out of the blue, offered him more money than he was able to make in a month of bartending. David was on his way—and Catherine would never let him go . . .
The weeks flew by and, before we knew it, David’s residency was over again. He had filled his pad with drawings and on the day he left, he gave them to me. Neither of us could bear the thought of someone new living in our cabin—as we had come to think of it—but someone did. I was told he was a composer, but he was never outside and he never said hello. I don’t know how he could have possibly composed anything uplifting, so I decided his compositions must be morose and depressing. It was difficult for me to stop at the cabin—so full of wonderful memories—and not go inside, but I clung to the promise that David would be back the following spring and the cabin would be ours again.
For twelve years, David returned to that little cabin in the woods—a place I’d come to cherish—and would love to visit once more in my life. After that last year, both of our lives changed. The girls were getting older—sixteen, fifteen, and thirteen—I had a house full of teenage girls! It was the exact scenario Tom had worried about, but I know he would’ve loved every minute! I’d also set aside enough money, along with the last of Tom’s insurance money, and money from my silent partner—who encouraged me to follow my dreams—to buy a downtown storefront and turn it into a tea shop—a thankful tribute to the endless cups of tea that kept me going all those years!
Although we missed the privacy and opportunity the cabin had given us, we found other ways to be together. It was always important to David that we keep our relationship a secret, and although my heart silently ached because he never publically acknowledged his love for me—I didn’t say anything. If it was the only way I could be a part of his life, I was willing to endure the heartache, but I secretly hoped that we would both live longer than Catherine and a day would come when we could love openly—without shame or guilt.
 
I wish I’d begun writing these memories down sooner. Sometimes, now, I have flashes when I see clearly in my mind—a smile, a place, or a moment when our bodies were lost in lovemaking—but when I try to assemble these into any kind of order, it seems impossible. I know some of the images in my mind are from photographs—and I’ve often thought that seeing the photographs again would help me remember—but I can’t, for the life of me, remember where I’ve put them.
Some days now, I sit down to write and I become very tired and find it difficult to remember the words I want to use—it’s almost as if the door in my mind is closing and behind it are all the things I’ve ever known. Sometimes, when I feel this way, I lie down and I feel the cool breeze whispering through the open window, rustling the curtains. I hear a cardinal chirping his midday chirp . . . and the way the sunlight filters into my room reminds me of my childhood—and staying home from school when I didn’t feel well. I remember the melancholy feeling I had, thinking of my classmates running around the schoolyard at recess without me. Oddly, it feels the same way now. I know the world and all its excitement is going on out there—but instead of being a part of it, I lie here—alone and quiet . . . listening . . . and wondering if the world will notice when I’m gone.
 
I’ve been trying to remember our trip to . . . ? Oh, if I could only find those photographs! I can still see David standing next to the mast of that beautiful sailboat—tan and handsome—his thick dark hair, peppered with gray, blowing in the cool breeze as he looked out to sea. To think he was mine for the asking!
 
When I woke up this morning, it felt like Christmas because I suddenly remembered, with vivid clarity, a weekend trip we’d taken to North Conway. After years of traveling back and forth from London to New York—and countless trips to New Hampshire—David had finally decided to build a second home in the States. He and Catherine rarely saw each other anymore—the only proof of their marriage was a slip of paper. The girls were all in college by then and David had been after me to take a ride up to the mountains to see the construction site. I’d agreed, but on the morning he was to arrive, I’d run to the store to pick up a few things. On my way back, the car started to bump along and I couldn’t figure out why. Finally, I pulled over and discovered I had a flat tire! I panicked—David was on his way and I wasn’t there. What would he think? I’d never in my life changed a flat tire before. I didn’t even know where to begin! I suddenly regretted all the days my dad had wanted to teach me but I’d put him off. Why hadn’t I ever taken the time? I opened the trunk and looked at the spare tire. I must’ve looked pretty helpless because the first pickup truck that came along pulled alongside and the young man asked me if I needed help. I nodded and he immediately hopped out. He had the tire changed in no time, but when I tried to pay him, he refused. I said, “Well, I can’t thank you enough,” and I asked him his name. He said his name was Colin; then he said it was the least he could do. I didn’t know what he meant, but before I could ask him, he was gone.
By the time I got home, David’s dark green Land Rover—an accessory he’d purchased to go along with his future life as a country gentleman—was already parked in the driveway. He’d stayed in my bed on numerous occasions by then, so he knew the way, and I found him dozing on the porch. When he heard me, he opened one eye and teased, “Here you are—late again!” I laughed and went inside to quickly pack our picnic; when I came back out, carrying an old hickory basket from MacDowell, he eyed it suspiciously and said, “Excuse me, ma’am, but does that basket belong to you?” I laughed and told him it did indeed!
On our way to the house site, we stopped in North Conway for a bottle of wine and then drove up the long, winding driveway that led to a clearing that was on top of the world! The views were stunning and the air was so clear we could see for miles in every direction. We stood together, breathing in the crisp autumn air and taking in the majesty of the mountains and the dazzling display of crimson, orange foliage against a cobalt blue sky.
David showed me around the property and described the gardens he was planning—from shrubs to ornamental grass and from flowering perennials to fruit trees, he hoped to have a little of everything—including an English rose garden—in memory of his mother—and a tea garden for me! The post-and-beam-style house was still being framed, but you could tell it was going to be expansive and stately. When we went inside, he explained each room, from kitchen and dining room to library and great room. There was a massive stone chimney in the center of the house with two fireplaces—one in the kitchen and one in the dining room; and there was a second chimney in the back of the house with another fireplace in the great room. We went up the unfinished stairs to the second floor, which had plywood flooring but no walls yet, and he showed me where his studio would be—on the northern end of the house, of course. On the other end, there were several bedrooms, including a large master bedroom with two walk-in closets and a bathroom that was as big as my bedroom at home. He pushed back his hair and pulled me toward him, and I said I hoped his new home would be blessed with love and happiness—and his hearth would always be warm. We sipped our wine; then he reached for my glass . . . and, uninhibited by the openness of our surroundings, we made love under a canopy of endless blue sky.
 
As I reread this last passage now, I’m no longer able to recall that day with the same clarity I had when I wrote it . . . and I can’t help but wonder if I was dreaming? The days all seem to run together now.... I sometimes picture a gnarled, ancient oak tree in the backyard of my childhood. My dad is pushing me higher and higher on the swing . . . and the tips of my shoes touch one of the low-hanging branches. “Higher, Daddy,” I shout, laughing. “I want to touch heaven!”
 
I haven’t written anything in a long time—but an old friend came to see me today. He told me his wife had died. I told him I was sorry. At first, I wasn’t sure of his name—but, now, I know it was David. As we sat together, I could see tears in his eyes....
“It’s very hard to lose a loved one,” I said, reaching for his hand.
He nodded as tears spilled down his cheeks.

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