My Deja Vu Lover (15 page)

  
He gave me one of his funny grins. “Ah hah. This is that big corny chick flick scene, right? The one where you tell me you’re pregnant.” His eyes widened and the smile went stiff. “Hey, are you? Because you know I’ll do whatever you need.”

  
I grinned back. “Yeah, sure, another proposal. You forgot to ask if it’s yours.”

  
“Probably not. I’m usually careful. Graham? He’s married, right? Listen, April, I don’t know what you want, but if it helps, I’ll marry you. You don’t have to live with me. Hey, we don’t even need a pre-nup, right, because we can call it quits whenever you want and neither of us owns a damn thing so there’s nothing to split.” When I didn’t answer, he said, “Oh come on, that Solomon thing is gross. I’ll sign right now that you get the whole baby.”

  
No matter how weird my life was, Tom could always make it weirder.

  
I started giggling and then I got the hiccups and then my nose ran, damn, nothing under control any more. When I finally got it all turned off, I said, “I’m not pregnant. That’d be easy, I could handle that. Listen, Tom. But don’t tell Macbeth. He’ll cart me off to a shrink. It’s like I pass out or something, only not really. Maybe more like time travel, no, that’s crazy. Anyhow, I keep falling into this other world, seeing people, and it just hit me, that’s who Ruth is, she’s Cyd. And I found out something else. My name was Millie Pedersen and I lived in a little farm town west of Minneapolis.”

  
Tom didn’t look surprised or upset. He got up, grabbed Cyd’s laptop, brought it back, sat down and googled Minnesota, then kept zeroing in, reading off names of small towns until I said, “That’s it! That sounds right!”

  
A whole bunch of key strokes later, he said, “Okay, population under ten thousand, has a weekly newspaper that dates back to the first World War, no mention of a fire burning it down or anything that dramatic. Let’s see, they have the last ten years on the web. Doesn’t say about the rest. Probably have to go dig through shelves of old papers.”

  
“How do I do that?” I watched him bent over the laptop, the light reflecting on his face.

  
“Huh. You’re right. A baby would be easier. Okay, let me think about this. And right now, how about food?”

  
“Do we have any?”

  
“Come help me look.” H pulled the blanket off of me and hoisted me to my feet.

  
The men in my life were turning downright bossy.

CHAPTER 14

  
By the next day I had enough of my brain working to realize that going back to Minnesota to dig through old newspapers was a really bad idea. First, because it would cost a bundle and I had zip in savings. And second, when I got there, what would I learn? That a family named Pedersen once lived there?
 

  
“There was probably a Pedersen family in every small town in Minnesota,” Cyd said when I mentioned Tom’s idea. “And as for Millie, it’s a nickname. You could be looking for Margaret or Mary or Millicent or probably a lot of other names.”

  
So I pulled up the high school records for the Minnesota town and found out the current high school building was about forty years old and its online file of alums was “a work in progress by the Class of 1995.”
 
In other words, nada had been posted. Same went for state birth and death records.

  
There was a really cool site for the Civil War, gave enlistment dates, and another site for every war since, all fascinating but no help to me. Sure, there were a bunch of Pedersens, some from the right area. A genealogy society might be able to make sense of the info. I couldn’t.

  
Inspired by all that history at one’s fingertips, Cyd played around with several California sites, looked up death records and cemetery records. Again, nothing.

  
“We don’t know Laurence’s last name and all you know about Millie is the name Pedersen, no birth date. If a Millie Pedersen died in southern California in a crash, she could have been buried under any of several names.”

  
Was there a grave marked Silver? Silver who? Did Silver have a last name? Did it matter?

  
That night I wore a skirt and high heeled boots, borrowed a black sweater from Cyd that looked tailored on her neat figure but looked kind of bimbo on me.

  
“Go ahead, he’ll love it,” she said. “Here, let me fix your hair.”
 
She fastened it back behind my ear on one side to let the rest fall forward in a foam of curls.

  
“Okay, so now all of me looks bimbo.”

  
“Yes, well, wait until you check the prices on their menu.” Graham was taking me to a restaurant that was new to me. Cyd had heard of it. “Give the old boy his money’s worth,” she added.

  
From the look in his eyes when I pulled off my coat and settled into the seat opposite him, I knew Cyd had guessed right. We did the weather chat thing while the waiter hovered. After we’d been served and the wine poured, I told Graham about the internet searches.

  
He leaned toward me, the way he always did, listening, half-smiling, nodding, his hand over mine across the table. We were in a small, rather fancy seafood restaurant out near the Ballard Locks. All those windows and gliding lights of boats in the nighttime darkness, the reflection of the candles inside on the glass, he knew them all, the romantic spots around the city. He looked wonderful in a silk shirt and a jacket so soft, it had to be cashmere.

  
“Does it matter, darling? I mean, it’s fascinating, but if you were Millie and I was lucky Laurence, it’s over, whatever happened. We’re here and now.”

  
“I
 
know. Well, really, I don’t know, and that’s what is driving me crazy.”

  
He did a low snicker, kind of wicked sounding, and topped up my wine. “Eat your dinner. Then we’ll take a run out to the cottage and I will drive you so crazy, you won’t be thinking about anyone else.”

  
“Do you think I should forget about Minnesota? Probably. It’s sort of a dead-end. I’ve never been there, so why would I imagine a life in which I came from Minnesota?”

  
“No one is from Minnesota. There is no such place. You made it up,” Graham said, his eyes twinkling.

  
Night, black glass, the lights of passing boats, a cottage waiting for us.

  
The hotel dining room had been day lit, sunshine reflecting off the sea beyond a deep sand beach. But there was that same feeling of intimacy, the table made private by tall potted plants, Laurence’s hand on mine, the hint of naughty in his smile.

  
“Finish up,” he’d said, or something like that, and had asked if I liked the dinner he had ordered for me.

  
Graham hadn’t ordered, but he had suggested, told me his favorites and asked if I would like to try them.

  
And then, as clearly as I remembered the bedroom in the California hotel, and Laurence teasing me, playing with the buttons on my dress, I heard his voice. ‘No one is from Minnesota. There is no such place. You made it up.’

  
In the Seattle restaurant, my fork clattered to the table. When I grabbed to catch it, I knocked over my wine glass. And then I sat dead still in the chair by the window facing the Ballard Locks and stared at Graham while he waved for a waiter.

  
They did a lot of empty chitchat about don’t worry, no problem, those wine glasses were top heavy. The waiter would bring a clean one, he assured me.

  
And then Graham said a whole bunch more words and all I could hear was Laurence’s voice saying, ‘No one is from Minnesota. There is no such place. You made it up.’

  
And here and now, Graham saying, “No one is from Minnesota. There is no such place. You made it up.”

  
I couldn’t explain, not there in the restaurant, maybe not ever anywhere, how could I?
 
Because then I would have to tell Graham about the pink dress and the hotel room, and he’d want a detailed description of everything that happened. There was a bit of the voyeur to Graham, although he hadn’t concentrated it on Laurence. I had told him we’d been lovers and he hadn’t ever asked for details.

  
But several times Graham had questioned me about my past boyfriends, meaning past in this life, wanted to know who they were and how long I had dated them and then sometimes, when we were having sex, he’d say, “You mentioned someone named Jack. Did he touch you like this? Was he better than me?”

  
Now I enjoy talking sex as much as anyone and surprise myself with how easily I can tell a man what I want. But I cannot, will not, discuss one man’s technique with another man. So maybe I have this little corner of prude.

  
So I wasn’t going there in conversation with Graham, to that hotel bedroom in California, because he would pretend interest in what we’d said and then he would ask what we did.

  
No, I was especially not going there with Graham. Here’s the real reason. When I thought about my past lovers, none made love quite the way Laurence did. Except Graham. They were much alike in how they kissed and touched, in how they liked to comment on the texture of my hair and skin, small unimportant details, really. Except. They both did it.

  
I curled my fingers hard around the edge of the table to keep myself alert, in Seattle, with Graham. My brain wanted to burst, tune out, find Laurence. I tried to think of every other lover I’d ever had, not such a long list, really, easy enough to picture. I wasn’t comparing. Not the way Graham would, were my other lovers better?
  

  
Worse, better, I didn’t know or care, what I knew was that each was individual except Laurence and Graham, and in a dark room I wouldn’t have been able to tell them apart. Laurence had a deeper voice but when he made love, he whispered, and so did Graham. And almost the same phrases.

  
“Darling April,” Graham said, and I realized he’d been talking and I hadn’t been listening. “You’ll no doubt be overjoyed to have some time to yourself. But I am devastated. In-laws are showing up next week. If I can get away, I’ll call you.”

  
I murmured something, my thoughts with Laurence.

  
Graham reached across the table and slid his hand over mine. “Of course I will, you know that. Even if I adored my in-laws, which I don’t, oh, it’s so complicated. So much I need to try to straighten out with them.”
 

  
His voice went on and on and my thoughts slid elsewhere until I heard him say, “Whatever goes wrong, they blame me. Next they’ll claim I leave all those bottles around the house to tempt her. Can you imagine? As though I ever took home liquor. I spend half my life going through cupboards, looking for her stash.”

  
“Do you?” Did Laurence supply his wife’s drugs? Did Graham, no, that wasn’t fair. Of course not.

  
“What?” he asked.

  
Quickly I caught at his fingers, before he could withdraw his hand. What had I said? “The cupboards? Do you have to search? I mean, does she really hide bottles from you?”

  
“Umm, afraid so, darling.” He pulled his hand free, checked his watch, waved at the waiter. “Which is why I really should head home now, be sure I’ve cleaned out everything before they arrive. I’m so sorry, but so grateful that you could spare me time for dinner this evening, darling. You look stunning in that outfit.”

  
A daze circled me like fog, carried me automatically away from the table, into my coat, past other diners, out to the car.