Raising Hope (24 page)

I finish at about five, with Irene waving me out the door after serving me some delicious iced tea. Each ice cube in my heavy crystal glass contained a sprig of mint. I think about this as I walk back to my hotel, imagining the maid painstakingly placing a mint leaf in each ice cube tray slot. I’m not like that. I’m not. I’ve never even thought of anything as ridiculous as mint sprigs in my ice cubes. And my garden certainly isn’t weedless. Sometimes I even leave stray seedlings where they happen to come up, not pulling them because I want to see what will happen when nature is the gardener instead of me. That’s spontaneity. Isn’t it?

Oh, I’m just cross with myself because I’m meeting Sam in an hour. I instinctively check my watch. Fifty minutes, now. I’m meeting him in fifty minutes. I hurry across the street, picking up the pace. I’ve got to shower, do my hair and makeup, get my emotions in order. Breathe. Breathe. No time. Not enough time. Should have taken a cab. I’m jogging a little, looking ridiculous, I’m sure. But there’s nothing I hate worse than feeling pressed for time. Oh, if only I hadn’t accepted Irene Luger’s mint-ice-cubed tea. Drat.

I run up the hotel’s stone steps, and the doorman nods to me and opens the door. I’m dashing through the lobby when I see Sam, and I’m so surprised that it feels like I’ve had all the breath knocked out of me. I stop short.

“What are you doing here?” I ask as he stands and walks over to me.

“Hi to you, too,” he says easily. He’s so tall, I come up only to his shoulders. His hair is still damp from a shower and parted straight in a way that always make me think of little boys’ hair.

“Wasn’t I . . . ?” I look up at him, flustered. “Wasn’t I supposed to meet you at six?” It’s not like me to confuse times, it truly isn’t. Maybe I’m losing my mind. I look at how young he is and smile wryly. Maybe it’s Alzheimer’s.

“Yeah, you were,” he says. “I got antsy.”

“Phew,” I say, relaxing my shoulders. “I thought I’d made a mistake.”

He laughs. “So what if you had?”

I can feel my annoying blush creep up my cheeks. “Well, I didn’t mean that I never make mistakes. It’s just that if I was supposed to meet you at five, I would have been keeping you waiting. And I hate keeping people waiting. It’s very rude.” Oh, God. I’m babbling.
Shut up, Sara Lynn.
I remember to breathe. Oxygen in, carbon dioxide out.

He puts his hands on my shoulders. “Breathe,” he says.

I raise my eyebrows. “That’s just what I was doing.”

“I know. I’m helping you.”

I must be red as a tomato by now. “It’s hard to breathe when someone’s watching you.”

He laughs. “I guess you’re right. You just seem out of breath.”

“Well, I was rushing back here to be on time, and then here you were, and . . . Why are you here so early again? You got
antsy
?” I don’t mean to sound annoyed, but honestly, I’d planned on showering and changing. I’d planned on looking perfect. Mint-ice-cube perfect. And here he’s gone and spoiled it all.

“Yes,” he says lightly. “I got antsy to see you. It’s been a while.”

“A while?” I protest. “I see you at the club practically every day.”

“It’s not the same,” he says, shaking his head. “We have to keep everything”—he leans in to me and whispers in an exaggerated fashion—“secret.”

“Now, hold on,” I say, putting my hands on my hips. “There’s nothing to keep secret. Nothing. We had an enjoyable time visiting the lavender garden, and now we’re . . . we’re just going out to dinner. Nothing at all to keep secret.”

“Then why was I instructed not to tell a soul about the ‘enjoyable time’ we had last week or, God forbid, about meeting you here?” His eyes are dancing. He’s teasing me, and I don’t know that I find it so amusing.

“Because I have Hope,” I hiss. “Because things at home are a little complicated.”

“Hey,” he says, his eyes softening, “I’m just kidding around. Listen, everything’s cool with me. Really. I’m just happy to be here with you. That’s why I came early. Because I like being with you. That’s all.”

“Oh,” I say. He likes being with me. Well, that’s sweet. And just when I was getting my dander up.

We stand looking at each other for a minute, and then I brush my hand through my hair. “I really wanted to shower and change,” I say.

“Why?” he asks.

I
tsk
my tongue. “Because that’s generally what people do before they go out on a . . .” I stop myself from calling it a date. “Before they go out for dinner.”

“No, I mean, why do
you
need to do anything to yourself? You’d look amazing in a paper bag.”

I can feel a corner of my mouth turn up. I shift my bag higher onto my shoulder and check my watch. “At least let me run upstairs for a minute. Just to freshen up a bit.”

He nods. “Okay. I’ll wait down here.”

I want to tease him the way he’s been teasing me, to say something like “Don’t go away, now, you hear?” But, of course, the words stick in my throat, and I just say, “Bye,” as I turn and stride toward the elevator bank. I sneak a peek back at him as the elevator opens, and he’s watching me, smiling. I whip my head forward as I step into the elevator. As the doors shut and the bell rings, I can’t help but turn up both corners of my mouth.

The elevator stops at my floor, and I walk down the hall languidly, as if I haven’t a care in the world. Well, doesn’t that change the second I unlock my room door. I race into my room, throwing off my top and unzipping my pants. I’m going to wear the black sundress I bought for tonight, come hell or high water. I sniff under my arms just before I slide the dress on. I’m fine, really. I don’t smell. Not that I ever do. But I still wish there were time for a shower. I zip up the back of my dress and slide into the strappy black sandals I bought to go with it. I stand up straight and take a breath, then trot into the bathroom. A little blush, concealer, mascara, lipstick—no time for anything but a little refresher, a little pick-me-up. I brush my teeth quickly and then study myself in the mirror as I run a brush through my hair. Should I put it up? I twirl it around and pile it on top of my head. No. I shake my head. No time for that. I give myself one last look in the mirror, and then I change my wallet, phone, keys, and tissues from my big purse to my small black satin clutch. I hear Ruth’s voice in my head, and I smile. “How many goddamn purses do you need, Sara Lynn?” she asks whenever I come home with another one. It’s always been my belief that a girl can’t have too many, and here’s proof. I’ve never had occasion to use this particular bag before tonight, but I’m awfully glad I had it in my closet ready to go.

I leave my room and walk down the hall, my heels clicking on the marble floor at the elevator. As I ride down to the lobby, I smooth the skirt of my dress and wonder what Ruth would say if she knew what I was doing right now. Though we’ve lived together twelve years, she doesn’t really know me. She only sees me the way I was in high school, cocky about the future and so sure of myself that it takes my breath away to recall it. She doesn’t see how afraid I am, afraid of everything.

As I walk out of the elevator and across the lobby, I spy Sam, putting down the paper he’s reading and rising from his chair. His admiring gaze fills me with so much hope that I feel dizzy for a second, as if I might wobble on my heels. I smile.

“Well, you couldn’t resist, could you. You had to change.”

I laugh. “Yes, that’s right. I’ve been looking for an occasion to wear this dress, and I wasn’t going to let you spoil it just because you decided you were ‘antsy.’”

“Fair enough.” He touches my arm and says, “And you do look beautiful.”

I can feel myself blush, and I instinctively look away from him. “Let’s go, shall we?” I murmur.

“Our dinner reservation’s not until seven. Would you like to walk around until then?”

“Sure,” I say. “I used to live around here, you know. Back when I first got out of law school.”

“Oh yeah.” He smiles. “Hope told me you used to be a lawyer.”

“In a past life, I always say.” We’re walking down the hotel steps into the early evening air. It’s cooling off a bit, but the sun is still a hot red ball in the sky, just waiting to set.

“Why’d you quit?”

“How do you know I wasn’t fired?” I say half-jokingly.

“Were you?” he asks.

“No.” I shake my head. “I quit.”

“So . . . why?”

“Because it wasn’t right for me.” We’re ambling up toward Beacon Hill. “It made me feel dead inside.”

He chuckles. “That’s a very good reason to quit something.”

“Have you always known you wanted to paint?” I ask.

“Yup. But it took a while to convince my parents. My dad runs a manufacturing business back in Ohio. Since I was little, he wanted me to go into the business with him.”

“What does he manufacture?” I ask.

“Safety cones.”

“Safety cones?” I look up at him and laugh; it’s such an unexpected answer.

“You know . . . those orange cones you see on the highway when there’s roadwork.”

“Oh, I know what they are. It’s just that I’ve never really thought about . . . well, that someone actually makes those things.”

“There’s money to be made in safety cones, my friend,” he says in a teasing voice. “Just ask my dad.”

“So what did he say . . . how did he react when you told him you didn’t want to make safety cones?”

“Well, I think my sister had pretty much broken my parents in by that point.” He shakes his head and smiles, as if remembering something funny. “So it wasn’t that tough. Although Dad still takes me aside every Christmas and says, ‘Son, you know you’re always welcome in the business if this art thing doesn’t work out.’”

I laugh at his imitation of his father and ask, “What did your sister do that broke them in? Join the circus?”

“Sort of,” he says wryly. “She was an actress.” He says “actress” in a funny, dramatic way that makes me smile.

“An actress? Would I know her work?”

“Not unless you were a big fan of off-off-off-Broadway plays about six or seven years ago.”

“Oh, she doesn’t act anymore?”

“No,” he says, shaking his head. “Actually, she’s dead.”

I stop in my tracks. “Oh, Sam,” I say. “I’m so sorry.”

He nods and keeps walking, his head bent toward the ground. “Yeah. It was a while ago—five years.” Now he stops and looks up. “God,” he marvels. “She’s been gone five years.”

“What . . . what happened?” I don’t know if I should ask, but he seems to want to talk about her.

“Cancer. She got it when she was twenty-eight and made it two years. She died when she was thirty.”

“Oh God,” I say, touching his arm. “What a shame.”

“Yeah,” he says, exhaling. Then he turns and smiles, and he’s the Sam I know again, teasing and happy. “That’s why it’s a good idea to quit something that makes you feel dead inside—because you may be dead sooner than you think.” He looks up at the sky and points to the sun. “It’s finally setting,” he says. Then he continues, “Julie was an amazing person.” He lets out a short laugh. “It sounds goofy, but she taught me so much about how to live.”

“How to live,” I repeat quietly. Then I ask, before I can think better of it, “How to live? How do you live?”

He flashes me a smile. “Like there’s no tomorrow.” Then he laughs and says, “That’s why I showed up early tonight—I was sitting around looking forward to seeing you, and then I decided it would be more fun to be with you as opposed to just thinking about being with you.”

“So you do things just because you feel like it?”

“I try to,” he says. “Because what else do I have to go on that’s more reliable?”

What he says hurts me with its beauty. It’s so pure and guileless, so unafraid, so unlike the way I’ve lived my life. “I’m thirty-seven,” I tell him, and I don’t know why I choose right now to tell him my age. Perhaps I’m warning him, giving this trusting man information he doesn’t yet have. Perhaps I’m warning myself, saying I’m a fool if I think I can change my cautious ways at this late date in my life.

He nods. “I know.”

“You . . . ? How do you know?” It’s certainly not something I’ve brought up.

“Hope.”

“Hope?” My shoulders stiffen. That little busybody, telling my business all over town.

He must sense my anger, for he explains, “I asked her. I just wanted to know.”

“Why did you want to know?” I snap. “To see if I was in an appropriate age range? What if I’d been forty? Would that have been too old?”

“No,” he says gently. “No. It wouldn’t have been too old. I asked her because I couldn’t get you out of my head. This was after you and I went to the lavender garden together. I just . . . I wanted to know everything about you. What cereal you eat, what time you go to bed, your favorite season. Everything. So I sort of worked you into my conversations with Hope—general questions like how old you were, how long you’d been working at the magazine, what kinds of things you two do together, stuff like that.”

I’m flabbergasted. Utterly flabbergasted. He wanted to know about me? He actually thought about me all week? But he’s so full of life, so sunny, so . . . so young. “How old are you?” I ask, more shrilly than I mean to sound.

“I’m twenty-nine,” he says calmly.

“Twenty-nine,” I say quietly, shaking my head. I look straight at him. “Why do you want to be here with me? I’m eight years older than you.”

“What do you mean, why do I want to be here with you?” He sounds frustrated.

“It’s not an unreasonable question,” I say huffily.

He sighs, then shrugs. “I just like you, okay?” he says. “I get a kick out of you. Since that first day I met you, when you brought Hope to her lesson and you were practically doing cartwheels and wringing your hands at the same time trying to make sure she’d be okay, I just liked you.”

“I wasn’t doing cartwheels,” I say haughtily.

He laughs. “And you’re funny. You’re a funny person.”

“Funny odd? Or funny ha-ha?” I snap, because if he says I’m funny in an odd way, I’m going back to my hotel and ordering room service.

“Funny ha-ha,” he says.

Well, it’s better than funny odd, but I still don’t see it. I shake my head and put my hands on my hips. “I really am not the least bit funny,” I say. “I can’t even tell a joke properly.”