The Promise (2 page)

 2 

T
om looked at the digital clock on his dashboard as he pulled in to his third stop of the day. Another local coffee place that competed with Starbucks, called the Java Stop. Compared to his other haunts, this one was nice and quiet. Great for guys like him, not so great for the owners. He wasn't sure how long this place would make it.

Hopefully long enough for him to find a new job. “Any day now” had been his mantra, repeated daily to ward off the unrelenting doubts. When he found another job, all his problems would go away. That was the idea.

But that's not what had happened. He could hardly believe it, but five months had already passed since he'd lost his job, two months after Michele and Allan's wedding.

As he got out of his car, he tried to stop thinking about it. The whole thing still made him mad. Or was he just hurt because of the way it happened? A vicious betrayal. It was difficult to sort through the jumble of emotions stirring inside. Add to that the confusion and guilt he felt from the stockpile of lies he'd created trying to keep this masquerade intact.

Then there was the struggle with his father. He wasn't sure which of the two things bothered him more. Tom was happy
for his dad, really. And for his mom. The two of them were back together and doing so well. He looked at the digital clock again. They should be arriving in Italy any time now to start their romantic second honeymoon.

Good for them. No, really. He was glad.

He just wished there was more of his father to go around. His dad had been so completely focused on winning back his mom that he'd completely ignored his promise to Tom to change what was broken in
their
relationship. They were supposed to start having regular heart-to-heart talks right after Michele's wedding; real conversations, man to man.

But they'd only had one. Just one. A few weeks before the wedding.

After that big dance at the reception, his parents had reconciled. His dad moved back into the house. They started going to a new church together. Got some counseling. Joined a couples' small group. Made some new friends. He was happy for them. Really.

But Tom got dropped.

He had to walk through this whole job loss thing by himself. As with every other big juncture in his life, he had no father to talk to. In that first couple of weeks, he'd tried at least a dozen times to connect with his dad; it never worked out. But then, what if they had gotten together, what would Tom have said? He wasn't even sure he'd have been able to tell his dad everything that happened. Not the way it happened, nor how sick he'd felt inside about it, nor his plan to keep the news from Jean until he'd found another job. He and his dad just didn't have that kind of relationship.

Tom knew he couldn't have borne the weight of his dad's disappointment. It wasn't just the words his father would have said (and he'd have said plenty); he had this way of looking at you that instantly made you feel so small and unworthy. Like
you were almost disgusting. Like you'd ruined what little hope he'd ever had for your success.

Tom was almost certain that if his dad heard the whole story, he'd put all the blame on Tom for the mess he was in. How could he have let this happen? Why hadn't he fought harder to keep his job or find a way to turn the situation around? Better yet, if Tom had followed his father's advice and gotten that IT certification right after he'd graduated from college, he wouldn't have lost his job in the first place.

Tom had spent his entire childhood, his teen years, and now the first phase of his adult life trying to win the approval and affections of a man who somehow managed to remain continually just out of reach.

Tom had never measured up to Jim Anderson's expectations, and he knew he never would.

As he walked through the glass doors of the Java Stop, he felt like he was climbing out of a deep and slippery hole. It helped to be greeted by pleasant music, soothing colors on the walls, and the fragrant aroma of fresh-brewed coffee. Glancing to the far west corner, he managed a smile. His table was vacant. But he tensed when he saw Fred Messing sitting nearby, his laptop plugged into the same outlet Tom always used.

Fred was okay, he just talked too much. Tom came here to get things done, not to yak. And Fred was in the same boat he was, another out-of-work IT guy. So they were essentially competing for the same job. Fred had started coming in about a week ago and seemed to think it was perfectly okay to compare notes and share each other's leads. “May the best man win,” Fred had said yesterday, big smile on his face.

The problem was, since Tom had been job hunting for almost five months, he'd already sent resumes to all of Fred's “new” leads. Fred wanted Tom to share all his old leads and the handful of new spots Tom found. Tom got nothing useful from Fred
in return. Fred acted like the two of them should become good friends, maybe get their wives and kids to meet. “Let's do a cookout sometime.”

That wasn't going to happen.

The most obvious reason was that Jean had no idea Tom had lost his job. The other reason? After being betrayed by someone he thought was a good friend at work—the guy responsible for Tom losing his job—Tom wasn't too up on the idea of making new “friends.”

“Tom,” Fred said, “there you are, buddy.” Fred was also a Christian. And thoroughly optimistic that both of them would get great jobs any minute.

“I'm believing they'll be better than the jobs we had before,” he'd said. Tom remembered being like that. He'd spent the first five or six weeks like that.

But it was hard to stay irritated at a guy with a smile like Fred's. Tom knew he was just being cynical. “Hey, Fred, how are you?” Tom set his laptop bag on the seat. “Let me go up to the counter and pay my daily rent. You watch this for me?”

“Sure thing,” Fred said.

Daily rent, he thought. A Fred expression for the coffee they bought each day. It paid for the privilege of sitting in the A/C and mooching the free wifi. Fred, a big man, at least around the middle, always paid a little more rent than Tom. Tom never saw Fred come away from the counter without a pastry or at least an oatmeal cookie. The first time Fred noticed Tom noticing this, Fred had said, “Fortunately, I'm not as fat as I look.” Fred didn't explain what he meant, and Tom didn't ask.

When Tom came back to the table, carrying his latte, Fred said, “Hey, did you hear about all the excitement over at the Coffee Shoppe this morning?”

“What? No.” Tom feigned disinterest as he sat and took out his laptop and charger.

“The girls at the counter were talking about it when I came in. Somebody posted it on Facebook or something. They got robbed. Well, almost. Apparently, some masked avenger swooped in and almost knocked the guy out.”

“Masked avenger?”

“Well, not really. But a customer really did jump in and stop the guy, sent him packing. Took away his gun, and the robber ran out without a dime. When I went up to refill my coffee, I overheard the manager here talking on the phone, guess he called the owners over there to find out more about it.”

“What'd he say?”

“Didn't hear everything, but the owner at the Coffee Shoppe said they felt sure they'd catch the guy pretty fast. The stupid kid wasn't wearing any gloves, so they got some great fingerprints off the gun and the doors.”

Tom was relieved to hear that.

“Everyone's buzzing about this mystery guy who broke up the robbery. Looks like he left in a hurry before the police arrived. That's what superheroes do, you know.”

“Anyone know who he was?”

“Nope. Apparently, he goes there all the time, but the guy's real quiet, keeps to himself. Sounds like the newspeople showed up and did a bunch of interviews with the customers and staff. Should be on TV later this evening. I've been checking their websites but haven't seen anything about it yet. Wonder what this guy's story is.”

“So would you have stayed around if that was you?”

“You kidding? Sure I would. Well, to be honest, I'm not sure I'd have the guts to confront a robber like that. But if I did, you bet I'd have hung around. I'd let it slip out when those reporters questioned me that I'm an out-of-work IT guy, just doing my civic duty. You can't buy publicity like that. People love hero stories. It's going to be all over the news. Some hiring manager
might see the interview, and there you go—my job hunt would be over.”

There you go, Tom thought.

He sighed thinking about it. Most likely if he had stayed, he'd get so uptight he'd forget to mention he was out of work. He'd still be out of work after his fifteen minutes of fame came and went. Only his situation would be much worse. Life as he knew it would cease, because Jean would find out he had been lying to her all these months, pretending to head off to work every day.

That thought stirred fear inside him. There'd be no way to contain the firestorm it would create. Things could get so bad, his parents might even cut short their Italy trip. He had to slam the door on these thoughts . . . now.

Behind them lay a dark hallway full of more doors. Each one leading to a room that was darker still.

 3 

M
arilyn Anderson was beside herself. She couldn't believe it. She was really here.
They
were here. In Rome, the Eternal City. It was like a fairy tale. When Jim had told her two months ago that they were going to Italy, it didn't seem real. Even when he'd shown her the airline e-ticket and the travel materials started coming in the mail, it was hard to imagine it would actually happen.

But now, standing out here on their hotel balcony, watching the sunset over a skyline that included the Roman Colosseum on one side and the dome of St. Peter's on the other, it was starting to sink in. She heard footsteps and turned to see Jim coming out to join her.

He walked up behind her, put his arms around her, and rested his head against hers. “Isn't this amazing, hon? Have you ever seen anything like it?” He squeezed her gently.

“It's so much better than the pictures. I even loved the drive through town from the airport.”

“I know. All those narrow roads,” he said. “The way the cab whipped through traffic felt like a scene from a James Bond movie.”

She laughed. It kind of did. “The cars are all so little and boxy compared to the US.”

Jim came around beside her and put his hands on the cast-iron rail. “I've heard they're like that throughout most of Europe. And so many scooters.”

“Hundreds of them,” she said, “darting in and out. I'm surprised no one collided. I'm so glad you're not driving.” The tour Jim had signed them with used a luxurious air-conditioned bus with large picture windows. They were scheduled to meet with everyone tomorrow morning in the lobby at 9:00 a.m.

“I don't know,” he said. “It's not like England. They drive on the same side of the road as we do, and the steering wheel's on the same side of the car. It wouldn't take any getting used to. And there's something else I found out. Something you'd be very interested in too.”

“What?”

“It was something Dr. Franklin said. You know, the guy who bought that office space from us. He and his wife have been to Italy a dozen times.”

“What did he say?”

“You can drive a hundred miles an hour on the highway.”

“No way.”

“Yes. He said people do it all the time, and no one gets a ticket. You just have to make sure you stay in the far left lane.”

“I can't imagine these little boxy cars even going over fifty.”

“Not these little things here in town. I'm talking about a real car, something like a Beemer or a Mercedes.” He gave her a mischievous grin. “How would you like to drive a hundred miles an hour in something like that?”

“Don't tease me.” Marilyn absolutely loved driving fast. And she loved fast cars. It was a silly thing, and she knew it. But she'd been that way since she was a teenager. Of course, as a wife and mother she had to suppress most of these urges, but from time
to time she still felt them. The odd thing was, Jim was the one bringing all this up. The old Jim used to hate that about her. He would scold her driving habits and her occasional “lead foot.”

“I'm not teasing you.” He leaned his face close to hers, as though on the verge of giving her a kiss. “I'm dead serious. How would you like to drive a hundred miles an hour in a high-performance European car on the Italian Autostrada?”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“But how? We're riding on a tour bus the entire trip.”

“Not the entire trip,” he said. “When the doc told me about this, it gave me an idea. In seven days, the tour through Italy winds up back here in Rome. We're going to stay one more day. I've already booked the hotel for another night. We'll rent a car and drive to Florence. He also told me about a few out-of-the-way places between here and there we just have to see. Some nice little medieval towns. We'll see them along the way, eat dinner in Florence, then you can drive all the way back to Rome on the Autostrada, driving as fast as you want.”

Marilyn didn't wait for Jim to kiss her. She inched forward and kissed him. That kiss led to another, then another.

“If we don't stop,” he said, “we'll miss our dinner reservation.” He gently pulled back. “Why don't you finish getting ready? You brought that red dress, right?”

“I did,” she said, still holding him close.

“Well, you put that on and my favorite perfume, and I promise . . . this first night on our second honeymoon will make you forget all about our wedding night.”

He said it so romantically, she could hardly bring up what she wanted to say. But she just had to. “You're kidding, right?”

“What?”

“That's the standard you're setting for tonight? Our wedding night? Are you forgetting what happened?”

Jim sighed. “No, but I was hoping you did. Or at least that the memory might have improved in your mind over the years.”

She shook her head, smiling.

“Guess not,” he said.

“Jim, you didn't even make reservations for a hotel. We wound up spending our first night in that old roadside dive with short sheets and a plastic mattress cover that I kept sticking to.”

“I was nineteen. I was a kid. What did I know? My father should have helped me.”

“Remember, we found out that during the day certain people rented it by the hour?” She laughed.

Then he laughed and drew her close. “Okay, forget about our first night. Just think about tonight.” He turned them both till they were facing the gorgeous skyline again, his arm now around her shoulder. “Tonight I'm going to wine and dine you at an exquisite Italian restaurant. Real Italian food . . . in Rome. I'll be wearing my new clothes, which you picked out, and your favorite cologne. And you in that incredible red dress. We'll take our time, not talk about any of our problems—”

“Or our kids' problems,” she interjected.

“Or our kids' problems,” he said. “We'll eat our gourmet Italian food and drink our drinks slow and easy at a candlelit table. Pleasant music will play in the background.”

“Like the theme song from
The
Godfather
?” She heard it now in her head.

“Okay, music from
The Godfather
playing in the background. A waiter with an authentic Italian accent will wait on us hand and foot. We'll finish up the meal with some fine Italian pastry and sip our cappuccinos. Then we'll come back here to our room—”

“And fall asleep from an overdose of carbs,” she said.

“No.” He looked at her. “Don't spoil it. There's no way I'm falling asleep early tonight. And neither are you.”

“But if I eat all that food, I'll—”

He put his finger across her lips to gently shush her. “You'll be fine. I talked with the concierge. He said the streets between here and the restaurant are perfectly safe at night. There'll be a nice breeze outside. So, we'll walk. Burn off all the carbs. Then when we get back to the room, I have another surprise.”

“What is it?”

“Well,” he said, holding both of her hands, “if I tell you, it won't be a surprise.”