The Book of Someday (7 page)

In
the
bear’s pocket Livvi is discovering a diamond bracelet, twinkling like a circle of stars. A gift far beyond her imagination, or expectation. A gift that’s moving her to tears as she’s telling Andrew, “I haven’t ever had anything this beautiful. Not in my entire life…”

And now, all these hours later, as the sun is setting, and Andrew is bringing the sailboat in toward the shore, Livvi’s telling him: “It’s like you know how to make magic. Like you have command of a whole other world.”

Livvi is stretched out on the deck, looking up at Andrew, marveling at him. “You even know how to sail a boat. Amazing.”

“Yeah,” he laughs. “It puts me right up there with Popeye and Cap’n Crunch.”

Livvi absentmindedly pulls their open picnic basket toward her. It was Andrew who packed it. Andrew who chose the French champagne. The assortment of artisan cheeses. The Graber olives. The fresh-baked baguette with the perfectly crisped crust. The hothouse melon and the finely marbled prosciutto. The little apple tarts, each one flawless and glistening, like a jewel.

Livvi has never seen or eaten food like this. And she has never before been out on the ocean. Never experienced the splendor of rolling waves, or the exciting rattle and snap of sails that are towering and periwinkle blue. She has never drifted homeward, lazy and content, beneath evening clouds rimmed in gold by the setting sun.

Sailing on this boat has been like going to heaven—and it is Andrew who has taken Livvi there.

They are entering the harbor now. The Empress, the grand waterfront hotel where they’re staying, is coming into view. And Livvi is lost in thought, not really expecting an answer as she asks: “Have you ever, ever, been in such a spectacular place…?”

“Actually I have,” Andrew says. “I was here about twenty years ago. On my honeymoon.”

And just like that, it’s as if the deck of the boat is dropping into the sea.

Livvi is thunderstruck. “You were married?”

Andrew is apologetic. “I didn’t mean to upset you.” He quickly sets out the fenders and maneuvers the boat into the slip at the dock. “It was no big deal. Honestly. She was my college sweetheart. The whole thing lasted less than six months.”

“What was she like? Where did she go?” Livvi’s mind is swimming with questions.

Andrew’s attention is on mooring the boat. “She was funny and cute. And I don’t know where she went. It was nothing. Two kids who ran off to have a good time and woke up married. It happened a lifetime ago.”

Now he’s kneeling beside Livvi, taking her face in his hands, assuring her: “That girl is somebody I don’t even think about anymore. And I doubt she ever thinks about me.”

Livvi is looking into his eyes. Those compelling, steel-gray eyes that amaze her and make her weak, every time she sees them. And in this moment their gaze is fully and solely on her.

As Andrew is saying: “It was a blip on the radar. It was nothing.”

***

Four weeks after their return from Canada, Livvi is with Andrew on a business trip to Chicago. One of his public relations clients, a radically creative clothing designer, is showing a new collection.

Livvi and Andrew are at the side of the runway, in front-row seats. Andrew with his legs stretched out and casually crossed at the ankles. Livvi sitting up straight, leaning forward—enthralled by the extravaganza unfolding around her.

The exhibit hall is cavernous. There are speakers everywhere, the size of jet engines. The pulsing techno-beat of the music feels as if it’s being pumped through Livvi’s veins. Rainbow ribbons of light are arcing and dancing all around her, making it seem like the entire room is a spinning wheel of color.

And on the runway—from one end of it to the other—are designs that are audacious and exotic. Clothes so exciting they’re making Livvi gasp.

Without taking her eyes off the spectacular show parading down the runway, she’s leaning close to Andrew—preparing to tell him how much she loves him and how wonderful it is to have him in her life. At this same instant, the spotlight is focusing on a gorgeous, dark-haired young model who’s strutting past Livvi with an exaggerated, high-stepping gait. And Andrew is murmuring: “Jesus…that girl looks exactly like Katherine.”

Something in Andrew’s tone makes Livvi’s heart jump.

And miss a beat.

***

When the show is over, when Livvi and Andrew are on the sidewalk in a pouring rain, Andrew is hailing a cab. While Livvi is mentally, and emotionally, still inside the exhibit hall…
where
a
girl
is
marching
along
the
runway
with
eyes
that
are
empty
and
glittering, like they’re made of glass, and Andrew is murmuring, “Jesus…she looks exactly like Katherine.”

Then Livvi is suddenly back in the rain-soaked present and the world is in a clear, hyper-sharp focus. She is feeling, beneath the soles of her shoes, each dimple and bump in the sidewalk. She’s hearing, separate and distinct, every drop of rain. Every sound on the street. Every car horn. Every click of the changing traffic lights.

And she’s scared.

She’s gripping Andrew’s upraised arm, yanking it down. Causing the cab he was hailing to swerve away and move back into traffic.

Over the noise of the car horns and the rain, Livvi is shouting: “Who’s Katherine?”

And Andrew is shouting back. “She was somebody I loved. And she’s gone.”

His face is wet with rain. His voice ragged with emotion.

“Tell me about her. I want to know,” Livvi says.

“I can’t. It’s too hard.”

“I don’t want there to be things about you I don’t know, Andrew. It scares me too much. It makes me feel too alone.”

And in the face of Livvi’s distress, Andrew seems to melt—taking Livvi in his arms, bringing her close. “It wasn’t a love affair,” he tells her. “It was something different…but it wasn’t anything for you to be afraid of. I swear.”

“Then—
please
—tell me.”

“It’s hard for me to talk about. But I will. Someday. I promise.”

Now Andrew has stepped away from Livvi and is holding her at arm’s length. “I need you to listen to me, to believe me. You have nothing to be afraid of. I’m not going to hurt you.”

Andrew’s eyes are not leaving Livvi’s. His voice is quiet, hushed with emotion. “I love you.”

Andrew has never before said
I
love
you
to Livvi.

Hearing it has left her dazed.

Andrew seems as if he doesn’t know what to say next. He’s wiping at his eyes. Livvi can’t tell if it’s the rain, or tears, that he’s trying to be rid of.

He’s reaching for her, pulling her back toward him. Gripping her so tightly that even through the buffer of his raincoat and jacket she can feel that he’s cold—and trembling like a child. In the same way Olivia used to tremble, in the bleak cold of Santa Ynez. Needing someone, anyone, to put their arms around her and hold her close.

From the minute of his arrival in the bookstore in upstate New York, Andrew has lavished Livvi with gifts—with delight and pleasure and untold joy. And in this moment, her only thought, her only desire, is to give him the gift of comfort and consolation. The priceless gift that Olivia never received.

***

After several weeks of uninterrupted happiness, Livvi is waking up in a hotel room early on an Easter Sunday morning. She’s in San Francisco, where she has been invited to do a book signing.

She’s smiling—sleepily reaching for Andrew.

Discovering that he’s gone from their bed.

Andrew isn’t an early riser—he rarely opens his eyes before eight, and the sun has just come up. There’s no note. No text message. No indication at all of where he went. Or when he left. Or why.

And immediately there’s a pinch of nervousness in Livvi.

She glances at the luggage rack near the window.

His suitcase is still there.

On a nearby tabletop is the Easter basket he surprised her with last night. A lavishly engraved, light-as-air, silver bowl containing an abundance of Swiss chocolates and a hand-painted music box, with a lid that looks like a patch of flower-strewn grass. In the center of the lid is a pair of formally dressed rabbits who, at the press of a button, do silly pirouettes to a goofy rendition of “Tiptoe through the Tulips.”

The presence of the Easter basket and Andrew’s suitcase are easing Livvi’s anxiety, but only to the smallest degree.

This feeling of dread that Livvi is experiencing is out of her control. Automatic. A dance learned long ago at her father’s knee. The waltzing uncertainty of loving a man she doesn’t fully understand.

Livvi has picked up her phone and is about to press Andrew’s number. Then she’s letting the phone drop. Because the door is being opened. In silent, stealthy increments.

Someone is sneaking into the room. One light footstep after another.

When Andrew notices Livvi, sees that she’s awake and watching him, he seems rattled. As if he’s been out doing something a little dicey—and was hoping that she’d still be asleep.

He takes his time closing the door.

“Where have you been?” Livvi asks.

There’s a hint of hesitation before he says: “I went to a sunrise Mass. I always go to Mass on Easter, and on Christmas.”

“Mass? I never knew you were a Catholic.”

“Well.” His attitude is boyish, sheepish. “Now you know.”

For the space of a pulse beat Livvi’s uncertainty continues. Undiminished.

And then.

Then she’s receiving a kiss that’s sweet with the taste of communion wine. A lingering kiss—being delivered with the purity of a sacrament.

***

In addition to the trips and the hotel rooms, there are the days and nights Livvi and Andrew spend together in the Pasadena guesthouse that is Livvi’s home. A little treasure she’s able to afford only because her landlady, a flamboyant former television writer, gives Livvi a reduced rent in return for Livvi’s services as a part-time personal assistant.

The guesthouse has a lovely, old-world sensibility. There’s a gracefully tiered fountain in a little outside courtyard. The courtyard’s perimeter is blanketed in bougainvillea blossoms that are the color of red chili peppers and as delicate as rice paper. Inside the little three-room house are vases of fresh-cut flowers, walls finished in cream-colored plaster, arched windows kept open to the breeze and fronted by fine, wrought-iron grillwork, and floors covered in rose-colored Saltillo tile. Livvi’s furniture is simple. And her bed is high and welcoming, dressed in clean, unbleached cotton.

Livvi has been in this serene space for thirty-six months. Andrew is the only man who has slept with her under its roof.

This is Livvi’s cloister. The hiding place where she has insulated herself from the shadows of the past.

Now a missile has been sent whispering through the night. The attack has come in the form of a midnight phone call—and it has shattered her sense of safety.

While Livvi is putting her cell phone back onto the bedside table she’s wary, glancing at Andrew, to see if he’s still asleep. He is. The call must have been too brief to wake him. It is one of several that have occurred in the last few weeks. This time, unlike the others, Livvi picked up on the first ring. The entire exchange lasted only a few seconds.

There was Livvi’s groggy “Hello” as she was turning on the lamp.

The whispery voice saying: “Olivia. Is that you?”

Then Livvi pressing the Off button—dropping the phone as if she’d touched fire.

Livvi is shifting her attention back toward the bedside table—afraid the phone will ring again.

When it doesn’t, she cautiously turns out the light. And slides down under the comforter—holding her breath. She is wide awake. And she stays awake. For hours. Agitated and sick.

Livvi had truly believed she was safe from the ghosts of her past, but they are making it clear that they’re more agile, and have a much longer reach, than she ever imagined.

Sleep, when it finally comes, is riddled with disturbing images. Among them is the vision of the woman in the silver dress and pearl-button shoes—the woman whose fiery-red lips are making way for a shrieking howl.

And at the first sight of her, Livvi is fighting for consciousness.

She wakes up shaking—and crying.

Andrew is instantly bringing her near. Nestling her against his chest. Lacing his fingers into hers like a drowsy parent comforting a frightened child.

Livvi—infinitely grateful for his sheltering presence—isn’t noticing that in Andrew’s grip her fingers are being spread unnaturally wide. She isn’t noticing that the fit is just the tiniest bit uncomfortable.

Micah

A Small Town in Kansas ~ 2012

The cab is turning the corner, bringing the place into view. Micah isn’t comfortable with what she’s looking at. The worn steps. The neglected lawn. A cracked driveway littered with old newspapers, all of them rounded, in various stages of decay, like a trail of decomposing turtle shells.

The smudged leather on the back of the seat is faintly sticky. The taxi smells of gasoline and of the driver’s rancid breath. While the cab is pulling to a stop, Micah is looking toward the door handle. Eager to be gone. But also apprehensive about what’s waiting for her on the other side of the passenger window.

“Are you sure this is it?” she asks. There’s tension is in her throat and in her chest.

The street is completely silent. Not even the bark of a dog.

The driver turns his head, sunlight glittering across the gray stubble on his cheeks. Micah is listening to the click of false teeth and watching a fine spray of saliva sail from his mouth as he’s telling her: “You said Pine Street. One-eight-nine. This here’s one-eight-nine.”

Micah gets out and hands the driver twenty dollars to cover the fourteen-dollar fare. Then the cab pulls away—and she’s alone. In the middle of a street that’s as wide and flat and plain as the wind-whipped Kansas landscape that surrounds it.