And then I drove west, as the sun rose in a fiery blaze behind me.
Chapter 23
BECAUSE I stopped in Carson City to get a new tire, I didn’t arrive in Sonoma, California, until late afternoon. From a coffee shop on the square, I booked a last-minute Airbnb. I’d reached the end of the road, after all—and last night I’d slept in the alien-hunters’ van—and so I figured I could justify the splurge.
The cottage was cedar-shingled, surrounded by a wild, flowering garden and perched above a small vineyard. To the west lay green rolling hills dotted with enormous oak trees. The owners of the cottage, who lived in a big house a hundred yards away, had kindly left me a bottle of wine and a platter of fruit, cheese, and bread.
After devouring every last crumb on the plate, I took a walk along the one-lane road as night fell. The air smelled like late roses and eucalyptus, and I could hear the croak of frogs and the chirp of crickets. I walked slowly, aimlessly. There was no reason to hurry because I was no longer going anywhere. I’d arrived.
All I had to do now was send an email.
But instead, after my walk, I sat at a small writing desk and scratched out the postcards I’d bought at various gas stations—to Bill, to my brother, to Lorelei and Sam and Karen and Pauline—so they’d know I was still alive.
And only then did I get out my computer and begin the email I’d driven three thousand miles to write.
Dear Julian,
Long time no see!
No, too chipper—too neighborly.
Dear Julian,
This is going to come way out of left field, but I
That wasn’t going to work either.
Hey Julian!
It’s the ghost of your girlfriend past.
As if.
Dear Julian,
It’s been almost 19 years since I last saw you, sitting in the passenger seat of a U-Haul pointed toward Cambridge.
This really wasn’t going very well.
I opened the bottle of wine, poured myself a glass, and took a fortifying sip. If I could survive a hurricane, leave my life behind, and set off across the country in the hopes of writing a book, I could certainly write an email to an old flame.
Dear Julian,
I happen to be in town for a day or two, and I was wondering if you’d like to have lunch. It’s been a long time, and it’d be great to catch up.
Anne
I took a deep breath, held it, and hit Send.
Immediately thereafter, I got up and began pacing the room.
I’d met Julian on the side of a road—just like the alien-hunters. I’d been walking home from school when the gray June sky unleashed a torrential, biblical downpour. I was soaked in seconds, sloshing my way through sudden puddles, when Julian pulled up on a motorcycle and offered me a ride. He went to the boarding school on the other side of town, but I’d seen him at a few parties. I glanced at his little vintage Honda, which hardly looked big enough for him, and I shook my head.
He’d smiled. “A gentleman always sees a lady to her door,” he said—or that’s what I thought he said; it was impossible to hear in all that pounding rain. He took off his helmet and put it on my head, and then he patted my hand reassuringly. And because his hand was so gentle, and because I was sopping and I still had a mile to go, I climbed on the back of the bike and put my arms around his waist.
It was the scariest ride of my life. The rain lashed my body and the gusting wind seemed like it was going to blow us into a ditch. Because I was squeezing my eyes shut in terror, I didn’t notice that he’d made a wrong turn until we were two miles into the country.
“Stop,” I’d screamed, and he’d yelled “What?” And then I nearly made him lose his balance and crash as I gestured wildly to a farm up ahead.
Shivering, we waited out the rest of the storm in a barn, watched by two wary cows and a few twittering sparrows.
Maybe it was the near-death experience (or the near-near-death experience) that made us feel close to each other so quickly. Or maybe it was the serendipity of two bookish introverts finding each other in such a crazy way. Or it could have been something as simple as teenage hormones. But after that day, we were together all the time—we talked on the phone every night before we fell asleep, and we saw each other every weekend. He gave me flowers and mix CDs; I bought him poetry books, a collection of Rilke’s letters, and weird talismans from thrift shops.
When Julian went away to college, I thought my heart would break. But later that fall my mother died, and the pain of that washed away everything else.
It wasn’t that I thought I’d fall in love with Julian again all these years later. But I needed to see who he’d become.
And, to be quite honest, his Facebook status was single.
My email dinged, and my heart did a jitterbug in my chest.
I’d love to meet, his reply said.
Let’s say the El Dorado Kitchen at the El Dorado Hotel. Tomorrow at noon.
Yours,
Julian
Chapter 24
I WAS early to the restaurant, even though I’d spent two hours getting ready, including thirty minutes of debate over whether I should wear my hair up (sophisticated) or down (carefree).
Ultimately I’d decided on an elegant chignon, complemented by my best sundress, my biggest pair of dark sunglasses, and my only pair of heels. No one would mistake me for a modern-day Audrey Hepburn, but I felt put together—chic, even.
The maître d’ smiled graciously and led me to the restaurant’s back patio. There, sitting in the dappled shade of a lush fig tree, was Julian.
My breath caught in my throat; the years since I’d seen him evaporated in an instant. Here he was, the boy I thought I’d love forever, suddenly transformed into a man.
As I walked toward him, my whole body electric with recognition, Julian looked up from the book he was reading, and his face opened in that big smile I knew so well. He stood up, and we hugged—laughing, shy, elated. He kissed me softly on the cheek and then stepped back to take me in.
“You’re even more beautiful than I remembered,” he said as he pulled out a chair for me.
“You’re not half bad yourself,” I countered, blushing and pushing a loose strand of hair away from my face.
But that was an understatement: Julian was striking, with high, aristocratic cheekbones and a light fan of wrinkles around his bright green eyes. His hair was a shade darker than it used to be, and he’d traded the vintage T-shirts and faded jeans of his youth for summer-weight wool pants and a custom shirt.
He looked so handsome and prosperous—if I hadn’t known him as a skinny teenager, I’d probably be too intimidated to talk to him now.
As I settled myself at the table, a waiter glided over and poured me a flute of Champagne. “Will you be having the four-course tasting menu also?” he murmured. “The ahi tuna salad, the tagliatelle with fresh herbs, the king salmon, and the zabaglione?”
The what? I thought. My mind was spinning a little. For one thing, my first love was sitting three feet away from me. For another, my road meals were basically four courses of Cheetos. I must have nodded, though, because the waiter said “Very good” and slid away.
“Nearly twenty years,” Julian said, shaking his head and smiling. “I can’t believe it.”
“I know,” I said, taking a sip of the golden bubbly wine. “It’s crazy, isn’t it? I’m almost twice as old as I was the last time I saw you. So why is it, Julian Fielding, that I so rarely feel like a real grown-up?” I laughed. “Do you ever have that problem? You don’t really look like you do.”
Julian’s eyes sparked with humor. “I’m a true grown-up from approximately nine to five, Monday to Friday. Your typical working stiff. Other than that, all bets are off.”
“What do you do now, anyway?” I asked. My haphazard Facebook sleuthing had turned up little besides his relationship status—Julian wasn’t much of a poster.
“I’m a lawyer,” he said. “And I’m glad yo
u couldn’t immediately guess that. I specialize in estates and trusts. But that’s all you need to hear about my job, because it’s deadly boring.”
“Oh, but very respectable,” I said, a slight lilting tease in my voice.
“Yes, that’s what I always meant to be when I grew up: respectable,” Julian said wryly.
“Well, I wanted to be an art photographer, and instead I take pictures of pets. Weddings. Bridezillas. I guess that’s just what happens when you get older: You have to get realistic. You compromise.” I sighed as I speared a lettuce leaf.
Julian smiled. “But if being a grown-up means you can leave work to take a long lunch with a gorgeous woman, then I’ll take it.”
I flushed again, wondering how in the world he was still single.
“So what brings you to town, anyway?” Julian asked.
You, I wanted to say.
What I actually said was “I’m working on a new project—it’s a mix of words and pictures at the moment. I’ve been informally interviewing people all over the country about their lives, their stories. And I’ve been taking their photographs.”
“That sounds amazing,” Julian said.
“I don’t know about amazing, but I hope it’s at least interesting,” I said.
Julian pointed his fork at me in mock exasperation. “Still self-deprecating after all these years. When are you going to accept the fact that you’re brilliant and talented and that whatever you do is going to work out?”
“Well, my marriage sure didn’t work out,” I said dryly. Then I felt like an idiot, because I hadn’t meant to bring that up at all.
But Julian smiled with both sympathy and understanding. “Marriage is undoubtedly complicated.” He seemed about to say something, but then he took a sip of wine.
“Were you married too?” I asked.
Julian gazed down at the plate of herbed pasta that had just been placed between us. “Actually I still am,” he said.
Chapter 25
WHAT?”
Because Julian was winding a piece of tagliatelle around his fork, he didn’t see my shock.
“But probably not for much longer,” he added, looking up.
“I had no id—I’m so sorry,” I said.
I couldn’t believe how close we’d once been, and how little we knew of each other now. “Can I ask…” But then I stopped.
“I used to tell you everything, didn’t I?” Julian said. He gave a little one-shouldered shrug. “I see no reason to stop now. Sarah, my wife, was a ballet dancer. As you can probably imagine, it’s a beautiful but brutal business. She’d struggled for years with an eating disorder, but by the time we met she was healthy. We married five years ago on Mykonos, and not long after that she decided that she wanted to have a baby.”
“And you?” I asked.
He smiled. “I can’t pretend I was excited by the thought of wiping some squalling infant’s bottom, but I came around,” he said. “We tried for a long time, and after almost two years, she got pregnant. We were elated. But then she miscarried. When she got pregnant again, she miscarried again. And again.”
“You’re kidding,” I breathed, knowing that he wasn’t. “I’m so sorry.”
I’d been expecting a story of infidelity like mine, but this was a pain I couldn’t even imagine.
“She had five miscarriages in two years. The last one was at sixteen weeks; he had tiny little fingernails. He seemed… so perfect.” Julian took a glug of wine. “It just took too big of a toll on her—I think because she felt like somehow it was her fault. That she’d made her body incapable of carrying a child. She left town three months ago. I think she’s on a silent retreat in Sedona, but I honestly don’t know. And I don’t know if she’s coming back.”
I was at a loss for words. “That sounds so hard.”
“I won’t lie and say it isn’t.” He was quiet for a little while, and then he leaned forward and patted my hand. “But for you, my long-lost Annie, this is supposed to be a celebratory lunch. Let’s not talk about what’s gone wrong. Let’s think about what’s lucky instead. Like me logging into my old email account last night, which I almost never check, and seeing a message from you.”
That was luck. What would I have done if Julian hadn’t written back? Wandered around the plaza for hours or even days, hoping to run into him? I’d tried something like that once before.
“You’re doing a terrible job on your wine, by the way,” Julian added.
I knocked the whole glass back; I felt like I needed it. “Better?”
He laughed. “A little déclassé, maybe, but definitely more efficient.”
He refilled my flute to the very rim, and by the time dessert appeared, I was feeling slightly tipsy.
“Maybe we should go take a nap in the plaza,” I said, almost meaning it.
Julian raised an eyebrow at me. I assumed I was being déclassé again, until he borrowed a blanket from the hotel’s concierge on our way out of the restaurant.
In the wide green plaza, the sun was hot and the breeze deliciously cool. Near the duck pond, in the shade of a huge oak, Julian spread out the blanket.
We lay down, lightheaded with Champagne. I watched the leaves dance across the sky above us and talked about some of the things I wanted to see while I was there.
“I can’t believe you’re here,” Julian said, interrupting. “The girl who got away.”
I turned to look at his strong profile. “That’s how you thought of me? That’s how I thought of you. You went away. I stayed.”
Julian was staring up at the clouds. “I used to think about you a lot. For years. I wondered what you were doing and where you were. I wanted to know if you were happy, and if you’d moved to New York like you’d said you were going to, and if you’d ever gotten back on a motorcycle.”
“I thought about you, too,” I said. “I wondered if you’d kept playing the guitar. And if you still wrote poetry. Or if you’d gotten too serious and respectable.” I nudged him lightly to let him know I was teasing.
He smiled. “No, I don’t write poetry. I should dust off my old guitar, though.” He paused. “It’s good to start things back up again sometimes,” he said quietly.
I decided not to think too hard on what he might mean by that. We were lying close to each other on a linen blanket on an August afternoon, full with good food and good wine. I could let that be enough for now.
Then Julian’s phone rang, and he looked at it and sighed. “I’m sorry, Anne, I have to run—I’m late for a meeting.”
Reluctantly we got up, and then we kissed, ever so quickly, on the lips.
“Lunch was wonderful,” he said. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”
“Good-bye,” I called.
He stopped and turned around in a halo of sunlight. “Hello,” he said, grinning. And then he hurried away.
Chapter 26
THE PHONE woke me as the sun was just rising over the vineyard. I knew it was Pauline on the other end of the line, but for a few seconds all I heard was sobbing. “Bob Kline died last night,” she finally said.
I gasped, even though part of me had known what she was going to say. “But Kit said—”
“Everyone thought he had another year at least. But Annie, no one knows anything in the end, do they? The funeral’s at Grace Episcopal on Friday. Oh, poor, poor Kit.”
“Poor Bob,” I whispered.
I wondered if his kids had come home for the weekend for the birthday party—if he’d been able to see them once more before he died. And I wondered, too, if he’d finished his coffin, and could now be buried in it.
When Pauline and I hung up, I paced around the cottage. Maybe it was strange to mourn someone I’d met only once, but I couldn’t deny my sadness.
When anxious, uneasy and bad thoughts come, I go to the sea, Rilke had written in a letter to his wife, a line I’ve never forgotten. I’d been thinking about driving to Point Reyes National Seashore, and now, because of Bob, I would do it.
&nbs
p; Maybe it would bring me comfort.
I could smell the ocean even before I saw it glimmering blue-gray in the distance. The briny air was so familiar that for a confusing split-second, I thought I was returning home instead of driving ever farther away from it.
My skin began to tingle, already anticipating the chilly shock of water.
Except for a woman and her dog in the distance, there was no one else on the beach. I took off my shoes and dug my toes into the cool sand.
The tide was coming in, and each wave slid closer to me than the last. Eventually, the water flowed over my feet and swirled around my ankles. I gritted my teeth and nearly yelped: it was so much colder than the Atlantic.
Rilke wrote that we should love life so much that we’d love death, too; death, after all, was just life’s other half. But I didn’t think I could ever love that kind of destruction. I doubted that Bob could, either—or my parents, for that matter, or anyone else who had to leave life’s party before they were ready.
When the breeze picked up and whipped my hair into my face, I remembered the gusty morning of Hurricane Claire. Strangely, it felt like a lifetime ago. As I stood there, rooted in the sand, my feet grew numb with cold, and eventually I began to cry. I told myself this was a good place to do it: once my warm, salty tears fell into the cold, salty ocean, no one would be able to tell them apart.
Then through bleary eyes I saw someone coming toward me on the sand—a tall figure, walking quickly and waving.
I squinted in the bright sunshine.
It was Julian.
Chapter 27
HE WAS wearing a dark suit and Italian loafers; he looked handsome and utterly out of place on the windswept beach.
“Julian?” I asked, incredulous—as if it could possibly be someone else.
“You’d said you might come out here today,” he explained. “And when you didn’t answer my texts.…” His voice trailed off.
I sniffled and tried to wipe my eyes discreetly. I hoped it wasn’t obvious that I’d been crying. “But why are you here?”