One Tuesday Morning (5 page)

“Wow.” Eric set his briefcase down and slipped his hands in his pocket. “I'm sorry.”

A single tear fell onto Trish's cheek and she dabbed at it.

“Hey … it's okay.” Eric felt suddenly awkward. “You'll find someone else.” Without knowing why exactly, he moved closer and hugged her. Not an intimate embrace, but the sort of loose hug people gave at funerals when they didn't know what to say.

Trish stayed in his arms for several seconds and then pulled away. “I'm sorry.” She sniffed. “I didn't mean to lose it.” Her eyes met his again. “I love working here, really I do. But sometimes I wonder how any of us can do both. You know, have the dream job and the perfect home life.”

“It's all about sacrifice.” Eric took a step backwards and reached for his briefcase again. “My wife likes the life we live, the house, the trips, the cars. She doesn't complain very often.” He pictured Josh and his buddies enjoying themselves at the pizza parlor. “Sometimes I miss out on the family.”

“Sounds like you have it figured out.”

“Yeah.” Doubt nibbled at the heels of Eric's conscience. “I guess.”

Somewhere in the distant places of his mind, Eric wondered if Trish was interested in him or merely looking for a friend in light of her personal troubles. Either way, he wasn't interested. He didn't have enough time for Laura and Josh, let alone a diversion like Trish. They talked for another few minutes, and then Eric nodded toward his car. “I better get going.”

“Yeah.” Trish gave him a sad smile. “Me too. See you tomorrow at breakfast.”

“Tomorrow …” Eric's voice trailed off. He'd promised Laura he'd go in late tomorrow and share breakfast with her and Josh. Now he'd have to leave earlier than usual. Why hadn't he thought of that when Murphy brought it up? He could have insisted they stay late tonight rather than meet so early in the morning. “Seven o'clock, was that it?”

“Yep.” Trish took a few steps toward her car. “Hey, Eric. Thanks for listening.”

“Sure.” He moved toward his new model black Mercedes. “Anytime.”

Five minutes later he was driving by Albertson's supermarket when he slammed on the brakes. The boogie board! He backed up, pulled into the parking, and sent a hurried look at the time on his dashboard. Two minutes after eleven.
Be open, come on, guys
. He sped into a spot near the front, slammed the gearshift into park, and raced up to the double doors. A teenager in a white smock was mopping the floor inside.

“Hey …” Eric banged on the window until the teen looked at him. “Open up. Please! I have to buy something.”

“Sorry.” The boy shook his head. He stopped sweeping and moved a few steps toward the doors. “We're closed.”

Eric banged again. “It's an emergency.” No pimple-faced kid was going to tell him what he could and couldn't do. “Get your manager!”

The boy disappeared and returned in less than a minute with a short, frazzled man in a rumpled shirt and tie. The man came up to the doors and shouted at Eric. “The registers are closed for the night. We open at seven tomorrow morning.”

Desperation surged through Eric. He couldn't come home empty-handed. Not after missing Josh's birthday party. His hands shook as he reached into his pocket and grabbed his wallet. Fumbling with the flaps, he opened it, yanked out a hundred-dollar bill, and waved it at the manager. “It's an emergency. Please!”

The man eyed the bill and looked around. The teenager was gone, no doubt sweeping some other part of the store. In a sudden motion, the manager slipped a key in one of the doors and opened it just wide enough for Eric to slip through. “Look.” He took the hundred dollars and gave Eric a frustrated shake of his head. “You have two minutes.”

Eric glared at the man. Two minutes for a hundred bucks?

He took off into the store, mumbling under his breath. If he needed more time, he'd take it. He crossed the store and made his way toward the boogie board display. It took him thirty seconds to realize it had been taken down. “Hey!” He barked the word, and it echoed across the line of empty checkout stands.

The manager appeared, impatience working its way into the wrinkles around his mouth. “You ready?”

“Where're the boogie boards? You had a hundred last week.”

“It was a promotion. Shipped the last of 'em back yesterday.”

Eric gritted his teeth and glanced around the store. What else would a supermarket have for an eight-year-old boy? He moved quickly through the store and decided on a tall red birthday card and an oversized bar of chocolate. He paid the manager and was back in his car in two minutes.

One hundred and four dollars for a card and candy.

When he pulled in the garage a half hour later, the house was dark. He crept into the house and turned on the light over the stovetop. In the dim glow he grabbed a pen from the junk drawer and opened the birthday card.

Dear Josh … sorry I missed your party, but guess what? You get to help pick out your present the weekend after I get back from New York. A boogie board! Won't that be great? I'll teach you everything I know, and we'll have a great day. Happy birthday, son. Take care. Dad
.

He put the card into its envelope, sealed the flap, and wrote Josh's name across the front. Then he propped it up next to the candy bar in a place on the counter where Josh would see it the next morning.

Laura was already asleep, so Eric crashed in the guest room rather than wake her. He tossed and turned most of the night, wondering if they should have gone with Chiron over Amgen and whether the execs at either pharmaceutical actually had their hands on a cancer cure.

By six-thirty the next morning, he was back on the road headed for the breakfast meeting at work.

T
HREE

S
EPTEMBER
7, 2001

The jet ski was flying fifty miles an hour over the harbor.

Beneath another unseasonably warm, clear blue September morning, Jake felt his wife bury her face against his back. He loved how her body felt as it came against him, loved the way it made him feel bigger than her, stronger. Like she needed him—if only for a few minutes on the open water.

It was September 7, the day they'd looked forward to all week.

Once a month he had a Friday off, and as long as the weather allowed, they would end up just off South Beach down at the water. Most years saw them putting the jet ski away by now. But not this September. It had been the most beautiful fall Jake could ever remember.

This time Sue and Larry Henning had come with them, and the two couples were taking turns watching the kids splash along the shoreline. Sierra's best playmate was the Hennings' daughter, Katy. The girls were both four, both a year away from kindergarten. Larry and Sue also had a six-month-old, but he was spending the day with his grandparents.

Good ol' Larry. The man had been Jake's best friend since high school. They went through fire science together and joined the fire department the same month. It took a few years to wind up at the same station, but for the past six years, they'd both worked in downtown Manhattan, Engine 57.

Larry's knees weren't what they once were. Too many years of football—both in high school and for the FDNY team. But he never missed a chance to hit the water with Jake.

“Flying across the water for an hour,” Larry often said, “is worth a week of icing my knees.”

Jake turned the jet ski in a gradual arch, and he felt Jamie lay her head to the side, letting the chilly water spray her face. He knew what she was thinking because she'd told him a hundred times. She loved being out on the water with him, loved the speed and the feeling of their bodies working together with the machine.

She leaned up close to his ear. “My turn.”

He nodded, cut the engine, and spun in a tight circle. With grace and ease he swung his body around hers and took the backseat. At the same time she slid forward into the driver's seat, and he gave her ribs a playful poke. “Hey … don't kill us.”

“Come on, ya big chicken.” Jamie laughed and shot him a glance over her left shoulder. “A little speed never hurt anyone.”

Jake loved the teasing in her voice, the way her eyes danced. He brought his hands up and covered his eyes. “Tell me when I can look.”

She let her head fall back as she kicked the engine into high gear. At work Jake had the more dangerous job. Jamie was a stay-at-home mom, after all. The most dangerous thing she did was cook dinner.

But when it came time to play, Jamie's thrill seeking knew no limits.

Jake perched his chin on her shoulder and watched her spot a cruiser a hundred yards out. “Hold on!” Jamie's voice faded in the roar of the engine as she opened the throttle and headed toward the boat's considerable wake. Jake peered over her shoulder and watched the speedometer climb past fifty … fifty-five … fifty-eight …

The move had Jamie's signature all over it. Here she was—terrified deep down in some private cellar of her heart that he would get hurt fighting fires—but more than willing to risk both their lives on a simple day of fun. He let his hands fall to Jamie's narrow waist. Her wild streak had always been there, even back when they were kids.

The other football players wouldn't have considered dating Jamie Steel. “She's a beauty, don't get me wrong,” Larry had told Jake the fall of their sophomore year. “But the girl would make a better safety than half the guys on the team. If I made her mad, she'd kick my behind.”

Back then, Larry had probably been right.

Jamie had been point guard on the basketball team, catcher for the softball squad, and a state champion in the javelin throw. The school records she set back in the late eighties stood to this day, as far as Jake knew.

After high school, when their dating grew more serious, Jake would take her for walks around Wolfe's Pond Park. Always after a few minutes the same stretch of dirt road lay out before them, and Jamie would tap him on the shoulder. “Race ya.” And with that she'd be off, sprinting with everything in her to the end of the road.

It always took Jake a few seconds to kick into gear, but a number of times, Jamie actually beat him. Fair and square. After the race they would walk to a nearby tree and fall onto the ground beneath it, gasping for breath. Once when they lay there that way, Jake studied her and shook his head. “What're you runnin' from, Jamie?”

She rolled onto her stomach and played with a piece of grass. “You.”

He remembered shaking his head, assuming she didn't understand the question. “Not the race, silly. In life. Why do you push so hard all the time? You must be running from something.”

For a long time, she looked at him, her eyes deeper than the New York Harbor. “I told you, goofy.”

“Me?” He cocked his head. “You're running from me?”

“Yep.” She planted her elbows in the soft ground and rested her chin in her hands. “I have all this … I don't know, this stuff in my heart. Feelings and emotions … an energy, almost. Way more than I should have.” She gave him a lopsided grin. “The more I use up on sports, the less I have for you.”

He'd leaned against the tree that afternoon and felt himself falling in love with her. “Is that right?”

“Yes.” Her eyes sparkled in the midday sun. “That way if anything ever happens to you, I won't lose myself.”

There were times after that—in the first year of their marriage—when Jake tried to remind her of that conversation. But she pretended not to remember. “You hold back with me, Jamie. How come?”

“I do not.” She'd look surprised, hurt even. “Everything I have to give is yours, Jake. You know that.”

He would study her, trying to understand her. “Remember that day at Wolfe's Pond? You told me you couldn't give me everything in case something happened to me. Because you didn't want to lose yourself, remember? Like you were afraid to love me too much.”

She would toss her dark hair and shake her head. “I'm competitive, maybe. And I worry about your job. But I'm not afraid to love you, Jake.” She would frame his face with her fingertips and speak straight to his soul. “I'm not holding back, honey. Not with you. Not ever.”

But she did. She still did.

It was obvious, if only at times like this, when she was blazing across the harbor with her hair on fire, frantic to outrun some unseen terror, something she was terrified would catch her if she didn't run. Jake held on to her so he wouldn't fall off the back.

If she wasn't running from him, maybe she was running from God. Jake was practically desperate for God to get her attention somehow. He prayed about it every day, but still Jamie hadn't shown any interest.

Whatever it was, Jamie was running from it. Jake was convinced.

They reached the cruiser and headed straight for its wake.

“Hold on,” she yelled.

They hit the wave full bore, and both of them lifted with the jet ski to catch two seconds of air before smacking down against the water and hitting the second wave. This time they nearly wiped out.

“Slow down, Jamie.” He gave her shoulders a gentle squeeze. “Don't be crazy.”

She eased up on the speed and did a wide turn. “What time do we need to be back?”

Jake looked at his watch. “Five minutes.”

“No problem.” She took aim for the cruiser's wake once more and hit the throttle, sailing out of it in a perfect angle toward the shore. “I'll get us there in three.”

Jamie lowered her head and gave it as much gas as she could, shooting them across the harbor at unbelievable speeds. Jake wasn't worried. They both could swim, and Jamie was too keen a driver to let anything bad happen on the open water. But as he leaned against her, savoring her naked back against his chest, he knew he would never quite connect with her the way he wanted to, the way she was capable of connecting.

Not as long as she was running.

He gazed out at the city skyline and the wispy clouds beyond.
God, if she's running from You, please … catch her. She's so afraid … afraid of loss and change and death. Afraid of You. I don't know what else to do, God. Help her stop running … Whatever it takes
.

A seagull swooped low a few feet from them as Jamie cut the engine and eased the jet ski up onto the shore. Sierra and Katy came running, their knees and ankles covered in sand.