One Tuesday Morning (47 page)

“What … tell me?”

He pointed at the television. “I used to work for Koppel and Grant.”

****

Jamie made the call the next morning.

They'd decided to start with the new office in Manhattan. After all, Jake must've worked in New York, since he was in the building when the terrorist attacks took place. It took Jamie only a few seconds to locate the phone number for the new Koppel and Grant headquarters, and then for a long moment she and the kind man across from her merely stared at each other.

They both knew the score.

If the phone calls Jamie was about to make led them to the man's actual identity … to his family … then their days together would be over. Maybe as soon as the following day. Once more Jamie entertained the wild idea of tossing out the number and begging this man who looked and acted so much like Jake to stay with her and Sierra. But he belonged to someone else, and again the moment passed. Instead, Jamie took his hands in hers, bowed her head and prayed, begging God that this detail about Koppel and Grant might be the answer they'd been looking for.

“We pray that even in the next few minutes You would help—” Jamie had been about to say Jake's name, but she caught herself. “Help my friend find his family.”

Through teary eyes, Jamie leveled a sad smile at the man. “Okay, then …” She drew a deep breath and picked up the receiver. “This is it.”

Sierra was across the street once more, so they had privacy to take as long as they needed to make phone calls. She punched in the numbers, and over the next ten minutes, she was passed from a secretary to a division manager to the department head and finally to the director of personnel.

Each time Jamie explained the situation, how she was trying to help a victim from September 11 find his family, and how the man now thought he'd once worked for Koppel and Grant. But always the person on the other end would fall silent for a moment, and then explain how he or she was new or how they didn't handle those types of matters. Then Jamie would be connected to someone else, someone who might
really
be able to help her. By the time the director of personnel answered the line, Jamie's patience and anxiety were both at the breaking point. Next to her, the stranger she'd come to love sat barely breathing, his eyes locked on hers.

“Can I help you?”

The woman on the other end sounded pleasant, but Jamie had to close her eyes for three seconds before she felt calm enough to speak. “Yes … I have a friend here with me who was hurt in the World Trade Center on September 11. He … he's had amnesia.” Jamie met the man's eyes and felt the familiar bond they'd built in the days since the attacks. She looked away so she could concentrate. “The thing is, this man now thinks that maybe he once worked for Koppel and Grant. What I need to have is a list of the people from your company who were killed when the south tower collapsed.”

“Well,” the woman hesitated. “It's a short list. Koppel and Grant lost just two employees.”

That's the information the commercial had provided the night before, but Jamie wanted to make sure. Her heartbeat quickened. If there really were only two names on the dead or missing list, then it should be easy to figure out whether the man sitting across from her was one of them. Jamie rested her forehead in her hand and closed her eyes.
Give me strength, God … help me desire what You desire
. “Can … can you give me their names, maybe tell me a little bit about them.”

“Ummm.” The woman considered the request, and for a few painful seconds silence filled the line. Then the woman lowered her voice some. “Oh, why not. The guys are dead, anyway.” She drew a slow breath. “Everyone knew them—they were the top people in the company.”

Jamie shot a look at the man beside her. The top men in the company? The man who'd shared her home these past months acted nothing like a business mogul. He smiled and covered her free hand with his. Jamie blinked at the thought. An executive? It wasn't possible. She focused on the matter at hand. “What were their names?”

“One was R. Allen Koppel, and the other was Eric Michaels.”

Jamie held her breath. “That's all?” She forced herself to exhale. “Can you tell me something else about them?”

“Sure.” The woman took her time. “Allen was a nice man in his fifties, married a few times with no kids. He never loved anyone like he loved Koppel and Grant.” The woman hesitated. “Eric … he was a young guy. Good-looking. Stationed at the LA office. He was here on business that Tuesday morning.”

Jamie felt her heart sink to the floor.
Eric Michaels?
Was that who she was sitting next to? The man who had shared her home, her life, her very soul, these past few months? She squeezed her eyes shut. “What … what did he look like?”

“I told you …” A phone was ringing in the background, and the woman was losing interest. “The guy was nice-looking. Tall, maybe six-two, dark trim-cut hair. Sort of an athletic build.”

Jamie had heard enough. The woman might as well have been staring at the man across from her as she described him. She was going on, repeating the details about the Los Angeles office, and Jamie tried to listen.

“Eric worked too hard. He never spent a minute at home from what I understand. In fact,” her tone filled with regret, “it was the job that killed him. Both of them, really.”

“What do you mean?”

“When the plane hit the south tower, everyone else in the office left down the stairwell. They were on the sixty-fourth floor, so they had just enough time to get out.” She paused. “But not Allen and Eric. The last anyone saw of them, they were crunching numbers, trying to finish one last transaction before heading down.”

“So everyone at Koppel and Grant's pretty sure both men are dead?” Again Jamie hated herself for hoping.

“That's the thought. Of course anything's possible.” The woman clucked her tongue. “After all, there's still a thousand people unaccounted for. They never found either of their bodies.”

Jamie thanked the woman and hung up. Then she looked at the man across from her, and in the depths of her being, she knew their time together was almost up. Her tone was soft, kind, as though she knew the answer to her question before she asked it. “If I say the name Eric, what comes to mind?”

He blinked, and a dawning came over his expression, a knowing that was undeniable. His mouth opened, and what he said made her feel like both weeping and shouting for joy all at the same time.

“When I hear the name Eric, I can think of only one thing.” He swallowed and tightened his grip on her hand. “The name Michaels. Eric Michaels.” He searched her eyes. “Is that … is that me?”

The tears came regardless of her desire to stop them. “Yes …” She uttered a happy cry and hugged him, held him as she would only get to do a handful of times again in her life. “Your name is Eric Michaels.”

T
HIRTY
-T
HREE

D
ECEMBER
4, 2001

It was December, and the shock had finally begun to wear off.

Laura had come to terms with the fact that the problems in her marriage were both Eric's fault and hers. There was no one to shake a fist at, no point hanging on to either guilt or anger. She had never realized how badly hurt he'd been by the loss of their daughter. After that, they had simply let their love die, and Eric had replaced her with his position at Koppel and Grant.

A position that had demanded everything from him. His time, his devotion, his heart and soul. Eventually his life.

She and Josh were getting on with living. The hotel where Eric had been staying had finally shipped his suitcase back to Laura. His belongings held nothing of interest, no postcards or souvenirs. A month later they'd accepted an urn of Ground Zero ashes from officials in New York City as a way of remembering Eric, but they'd turned down an invitation to attend a memorial service in Manhattan. The two of them didn't need a memorial service to remember Eric.

They needed a miracle.

Because in a practical sense, adjusting to life without Eric had been relatively simple. Once Laura got over her anger and self-recrimination, once she stopped running the list of what-ifs and should-have-dones and might-have-beens through her head and came to grips with the reality of the situation, there really wasn't much else to mourn.

Eric had disappeared from their lives long before he left for New York City.

And in his place—or maybe as a way of feeling loved again—Laura had taken to spending much of her free time with Clay. It was Tuesday morning, and Laura, Clay, and Josh had shared a pleasant dinner the night before. Now Josh was outside playing football with his friends, and Clay was on his way over. The three of them were going to do some early Christmas shopping at the Thousand Oaks Mall.

The doorbell rang, and Laura ran her fingers through her hair. Every day she enjoyed Clay's presence a little more, but she wasn't sure what God thought of their relationship. Not much, she guessed. The fence that stood between friendship and love for the two of them was chain link and razor wire. Neither of them had any intention of crossing it.

Not yet, anyway.

Still, Laura had to admit that over the past few weeks, she'd found herself attracted to Clay more than once, feeling the hint of interest she'd felt for him back in her junior year of high school.

Laura let the thought pass, and for a fleeting moment, she was angry at Eric again. This confusion, the wayward thoughts of her heart, they were all his fault. If only he'd told her years ago that he'd named their daughter and grieved her still. If only he'd opened his heart to her, maybe he would've never gotten so involved at work.

Maybe he would've been home that terrible September morning.

The thought passed as she opened the door. Clay stood there, a bouquet of roses in his hand. “Here.” He handed them to her. “For dinner yesterday.” A grin climbed his face.

Laura took the flowers and tilted her head. Clay had always been like this, hadn't he? Caring for her, placing her on a pedestal despite the fact that her heart belonged to Eric. Something in his crooked smile made her go to him willingly. She held the flowers in one hand and hugged him with the other. When she pulled away, his arm stayed around her waist.

“You know something?”

“What?” Laura lowered her chin and smiled at him. She kept her voice playful and upbeat so the moment wouldn't become something she wasn't ready for.

“I love to see you smile.”

“Thanks.” A dying piece of her heart gasped for breath and began beating again. “It feels good.”

Before either of them could move away, he brought his face to hers and gave her a tentative kiss on the lips. It was over almost as soon as it began, but it left them looking at each other, frightened and curious and lost in each other's eyes all at the same time. In some ways, being here in Clay's arms was as natural as the California sun. They'd known each other forever, after all, and they'd always cared about each other.

But not like this.

Laura was about to say something when the phone rang. She blinked, took a few steps backwards, and held up the flowers. “I'll … I'll put these in water.”

With light steps and a heart that felt freer than it had in years, Laura returned to the kitchen and picked up the phone. “Hello?” She walked to a cupboard near the sink and pulled out a dusty flower vase.

“Laura … this is Murphy.” The man paused. “Are you sitting down?”

The blood began to drain from Laura's face, and she uttered a forced laugh. Only one thought planted itself in her mind. They must've found Eric's body. “Murphy … what're you talking about.”

“I'm serious, Laura. Get a chair.”

Murphy had always been gruff and to the point, short on words and shorter still on personality. Not once in all the years Laura had known him had he ever tried to be funny. She set the flowers down on the counter, made her way into the living room, and sat on the nearest sofa.

From the corner of her eye, she saw Clay make his way inside and take a seat near her. She shot him a look and whispered the word, “Murphy.” She sucked in a jagged breath. “What's going on, Murph? You sound funny.”

Murphy muttered something. Then he inhaled sharply. “Laura … I got a call today. A lady from New York City.” He did a short huff. “You aren't going to believe this. I know it because I still don't believe it myself.”

Laura's throat was thick, and her heart had slipped into an unrecognizable rhythm. “Just say it, Murphy. What was the call about?”

“The woman told me she has Eric. He's alive, Laura. He got amnesia when the building collapsed, but he's alive. He's been living in Staten Island.”

Laura would've dropped the phone, except her hands were suddenly frozen. “What!” She stood up and walked a few hurried steps in one direction, then the other, then back. “Murphy, don't do this to me if you're not serious. You're telling me Eric's alive?”

She looked at Clay and saw a series of emotions pass across his face. Shock, disbelief, and confusion. Followed quickly by the proper look of hope and anticipation. He was at her side in an instant, and he slipped his arm around her shoulders as she learned the details of what had happened.

“I guess Eric looked just like this other lady's husband. A firefighter from New York City.” Murphy hesitated. “They found out yesterday it wasn't her husband, after all. It was Eric.”

Laura couldn't begin to identify her emotions. Eric was alive? How was it possible, and were they sure it was him? She squeezed her eyes shut. “What if it's not him?”

“His memory's coming back, Laura. He remembers who he is now.”

So, it was true! Eric was alive, and the reality of that fought to make its way into her consciousness. Ever since September 11, Laura had found most comfort by reliving the good times, the days back when they were first married, before they'd lost their baby daughter. Sarah. But now, in light of the fact that he was living, more recent memories barged their way in. So he was alive? Did that mean he'd come home ready to take on life at Koppel and Grant again? Would he even want to come home? And what place did he have there after being gone so long? There were details that suddenly needed figuring out, and Laura didn't know what to begin to feel.