Read A Note From an Old Acquaintance Online

Authors: Bill Walker

Tags: #Romance, #Man-Woman Relationships, #Suspense, #Contemporary, #Fiction

A Note From an Old Acquaintance (2 page)

BOOK: A Note From an Old Acquaintance
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2

 

FOR YET ANOTHER LONG and fretful night, Brian had haunted Joanna: his sweet handsome face...his velvety voice...the breathless memory of his touch...even the smell of him! Every memory of him more vivid than ever. And despite her determined attempts to meditate, to put those thoughts into their proper perspective, the calming effects she sought had eluded her, along with much-needed sleep and blessed forgetfulness, however fleeting. Instead, she’d again lain awake for half the night, her stomach twisted into guilty knots.

What’s happened to my life?

Lying there, with tear-clotted eyes, on her thousand dollar silk sheets in her multi-million dollar home, with every luxury her husband’s money could buy, she felt helpless and adrift, as if she’d somehow lost herself. That was the sum total of her life.

Lost.

She’d lost the one man who’d truly loved and understood her, for reasons that still remained a mystery, and spent the best years of her life living with a man who put her on a pedestal and worshipped her as if she were a goddess; and yet he was so obsessed with his ambitions, and the power and the money that followed, she’d become just another trapping of his life, another half-forgotten trophy.

Why did she let that happen? Why had she stayed with him for all these years? Was it a stubborn refusal to admit she’d made the wrong choice? Perhaps. Her Buddhist faith gave her comfort, but she was far from attaining its lofty goal of surrendering her ego.

Was it the money? As tempting as all of it was, if it weren’t for her son, Zack, she knew she could leave it all behind without a second thought. So, it wasn’t that.

What about love, then? Yes, there
had
been love...once, but of a far different sort than the passion she’d felt for Brian. With Brian it felt as if they were two halves of a greater whole. Funny thing was, a part of her still loved Erik; she couldn’t deny that, but her feelings for him now were like a faded photograph pressed into a dusty shopworn album.

And she was no goddess.

She was gawky little Joanna Richman from the wrong side of Westbury, New York, who’d worn braces all through her teens, and didn’t have a date to her senior prom, but who loved creating her sculptures, teaching her students about life and art, and being the best mother she could be to Zack. The only other thing she wanted—and needed—was someone who would understand her and appreciate her for her virtues and her flaws—someone like...Brian. Was that so much to ask? Was her life over at forty? Maybe it was, and she was just too stupid and stubborn to accept it.

If that’s the case, then why on earth did I send that e-mail?

That question roiled in her mind, as well, much like the dust motes dancing in the bright August sun streaming through the cracks in the blinds. She watched them, momentarily distracted and enthralled by their acrobatic grace, and tried to find the hidden meaning in their swirling patterns. But they were as mute as the smiling statue of Buddha sitting atop her dresser across the room.

Why had she stirred up something perhaps best left in the past? After all, Brian had a life, now, didn’t he—a different life? Who was she to intrude upon it? Was it just because she couldn’t get him out of her head?

No. The truth ran deeper than that. Nature abhorred a vacuum...and so did her heart.

He’d looked so dashing during that
Today Show
interview, so assured, so funny, so...Brian.... Yet she still couldn’t make that suave televised image jibe with the news stories she’d read about his wife and son.

And there it was....

How could she send him e-mails raking up another part of his past, a past he’d no doubt forgotten—or wanted to forget—when he was doing all he could to put on a brave face to the world? How could she be so selfish...and so cruel?

Tears stung her large green eyes for perhaps the hundredth time that morning. She sat up in bed, reached for the tissue box, and dabbed them. God, her eyes felt as if they’d been rubbed with sandpaper.

She squinted at the clock. It was after seven.

If she didn’t get going now she would be late getting Zack to school and her first student meeting. A glance toward Erik’s side of the bed, the covers neatly remade, told her the usual story. With his new building nearly completed, he would be manic, consumed by the myriad details, his family an afterthought. It was almost as if she were a widow herself.

Climbing from the bed, she took a quick shower and dressed in a simple black silk blouse and wool skirt, then sat in front of her vanity. Though the soft lights ringing the mirror cast an even glow designed to flatter, they failed to hide the dark circles under her eyes and the crow’s feet standing out like the stark lines on a roadmap. And was that another worry line at the edge of her brow? She sighed and began applying her makeup. It would take a bit more of her artistic flair than usual, and the irony of that made her sigh again. What would Brian think of his “favorite artist” now?

A movement in the mirror drew her attention.

“Hi, Mom,” Zack said, moving up behind her.

Joanna smiled, her son’s auburn curls a mirror of her own. “Hi, baby, you ready?”

The boy rolled his eyes. “Mom, please.”

Joanna chuckled. How he hated it when she called him “baby.” Or at least he pretended to hate it, judging by the twinkle in his eyes. “You get something to eat?

Zack nodded. “Just some toast.”

“You need more than that, honey. You’re a growing boy.”

“I had wheat germ, too.”

“Okay, fine,” she said, knowing it was useless to argue with her teenager. “I’ll meet you downstairs. We’re heading out in five minutes.”

The boy turned to leave the bathroom then stopped. “Did Dad read my new story yet?”

The hopeful look on his face tugged at her heart. “I’m not sure. You know he’s been pretty busy.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“I’ll talk to him about it tonight, okay?”

Zack gave his mother a sweet grin. “Okay.”

 

After dropping her son at school and braving the bumper-to-bumper snarl on the Mass Pike, Joanna made it into her office with three minutes to spare. She’d promised herself that she wasn’t going to check her e-mail—wasn’t even going to turn on the computer—but she’d known it was a hollow vow when she’d made it.

There was nothing from Brian.

“Well, what did you expect?” she muttered.

“Excuse me, Professor?”

Joanna turned, seeing her first appointment of the day standing in the doorway, an elfin freshman with soulful eyes right out of a Walter Keane painting. Joanna smiled warmly. “Come on in, Erin.”

The girl sat down on the edge of the hardwood chair, fumbling with her portfolio. “Oh, Professor Richman, I don’t know how I’m going to pass drawing, I just can’t get it, I just can’t—”

Joanna reached out and grasped the young girl’s hand. It trembled like a frightened animal. “Hey, it’s okay, relax. No one’s failing, here.”

The young woman took a deep breath. “You make it look so easy, Professor. And I feel like such a klutz.”

Joanna reached over to her bookshelf and pulled out a sketchpad and opened it to a blank page, then picked up a pencil off her desk. “It wasn’t always easy for me, either. The first thing you have to have is the desire, then the talent. You have both, Erin. Now all you need is the confidence that comes with practice.” Joanna handed the pad to the girl, who took it, then looked at her questioningly.

“Do you see anything in this room that compels you to sketch it?”

The girl studied the room, frowning. After a moment, her eyes stopped moving and she nodded. “That white rose in the vase.”

Joanna smiled. “Good. Now, go on and draw it.”

Erin began sketching lines on the page, her attention shifting back and forth between the rose and the paper.

“It’s a beautiful rose, Professor.”

Joanna felt her eyes grow misty again. “Yes, it is.”

 

3

 

THE
BISTRO
,
AN
ELEGANT
little restaurant nestled into a one-story building erected in 1890, sat in the shadow of the sprawling new wing of Saint John’s Hospital in Santa Monica, where Armen had privileges.

Brian edged his Dodge Viper through the noontime traffic and found a space in the lot behind the restaurant. The valet smiled, remembering him. Throughout the drive, it had taken all his efforts to keep his mind from speculating about what the good doctor wanted to talk about. The trouble was, when he avoided thinking about that, his mind kept returning to Joanna’s e-mail. He’d left it on the screen, as if by shutting it down he might somehow lose it. He just wasn’t sure what bothered him more: the thought of losing it or the fact that he was concerned about losing it.

Locking the car door, he wondered if he should have taken the Expedition, instead. The Viper stuck out like a sore thumb, parked between a battered VW Passat and a dusty Toyota Forerunner. He’d loved it’s sleek metallic-blue exterior and dual white racing stripes when he’d bought it some years back; but now, even though it was still fun to drive, it seemed ostentatious somehow, almost decadent, not to mention expensive as hell with gas prices the way they were. He pocketed his keys, wiped a beading of sweat from his brow, and walked toward the restaurant, his sand-colored hair already plastering itself to his skull.

The coolness of the Bistro’s darkened interior wrapped its arms around him in a grateful embrace, the air redolent with a heady mix of continental spices. Even though it was just past noon, only a few tables were filled. Silverware and lead crystal glassware gleamed atop starched white tablecloths, and potted palms dotted the floor in strategic locations designed to give each group of tables the illusion of privacy. He spotted Armen toward the rear sitting at his usual table. Brian waved, and stepped past the upright piano, already feeling the midday heat leeching from his body.

“Hiya, Doc,” Brian said, sliding into the plush chair across from his friend.

Armen Surabian was a study in contrasts to Brian. Where Armen was stocky and developing a paunch, Brian was tall and lean. Where Armen had thick black hair that fell over bushy brows and dark penetrating eyes, Brian’s baby-fine locks were brushed straight back, cornflower blue eyes cool and steady.

Armen smiled, full lips parting to reveal white, even teeth. “We’ve already done that for the day,” he replied, laughing.

“And we’ve only been whipping that horse for ten years, old friend, why stop now?”

A waitress approached and the two of them ordered drinks. A Samuel Adams Light for Armen, chilled Evian with no ice for Brian. They kept to small talk until after the drinks arrived. Brian sensed his friend’s mood turning somber.

“Okay, out with it, why all the cloak and dagger? You said she’s stable.”

“And she is, that’s the problem.”

Brian frowned. “What the hell does that mean?”

Armen took a swig of his beer and shook his head. “Penny’s been in a coma for almost two years—”

“Two years next month.”

“Her muscles have atrophied, despite our best efforts to keep them limber, and her brain waves show the same low levels they’ve maintained for all that time. She’s not brain-dead, but she’s not showing any improvements, either.”

“You’re not telling me anything new.”

Armen nodded. “I know, and I’m sorry, it’s—”

Brian leaned towards his friend. “What are you trying to say, that she isn’t going to get better, that she’ll never wake up?”

Armen’s eyes stayed focused on the table.

“Look at me, for Christ’s sake.”

The neurologist looked up, his expression tightening. “I’m sorry.... I’m just plain lousy at this bedside manner crap. Should have become a researcher. The truth is I no longer think the prognosis for recovery is viable.”

“Please do me a favor and cut the doctor talk. How many times do we read or see stories on the news about people waking up after decades? And how many times did you tell me things were going to get better?”

“Yes, that’s true, but—”

“I’m not finished. Why are you giving up, Armen?”

A dark cloud passed over his friend’s face. “I’m not giving up,” he said, leaning forward. “I never give up. I just hate to see you sitting there in her room every night...waiting. You need to get on with your life.”

“Penny
is
my life!”

The couple at the next table turned. Brian felt the hot flash of a blush rising up his neck to his cheeks.

“Sorry,” he mumbled, shaking his head. He signaled the waitress. “Give me one of those.” He pointed to Armen’s beer. The waitress nodded and moved toward the bar. A moment later she reappeared, setting the beer down with a soft thud. Brian waved the proffered glass away and took a deep swig from the icy bottle, then sighed.

“Now I remember why I stopped drinking these. I liked ’em too damn much.”

“You okay?” Armen asked, placing a hand on his friend’s arm.

Brian shrugged and pulled away, gazing through the tinted glass at the traffic stopped at the 23
rd
Street light. “As okay as anyone can be with his wife in a coma and his little boy rotting in a grave.”

Armen looked stricken.

“I still can’t believe it, you know? I still can’t believe my little Joey isn’t going to come bounding into my study yelling at the top of his lungs, ‘Daddy, Daddy, play toys, play toys!’ He was only three, Armen, only three goddamn years old.”

“I really wish I could be more of a comfort to you about all this,” Armen said, “I really do. But the fact remains that you need to face the issue of long-term care. A special facility. Keeping her at Saint John’s is going to bankrupt you.”

“Money’s not a problem.”

“Still, these facilities are top-notch and are better equipped to deal with the issues of those who are chronically comatose. I know one in Westwood that would be perfect.”

“No.”

“Please, Brian.”

“I want her here...under your care.”

Armen sighed and leaned back in his chair. “I appreciate that, but I’ve done all I can.”

Brian turned his gaze from the window. “You
are
giving up, Armen. Face it. And you want me to give up, too.”

“I told you, I—”

Brian lifted his hand, cutting off his friend. “I’m not blaming you. I guess I’m just feeling that I’m at the end of my rope. You know the new book I keep telling you about? Well, there isn’t one. I can’t get the damned words out anymore. Nothing sounds right—nothing. I should be in that hole next to Joey or lying in that bed instead of Penny, for all the good I am. She’d handle all this a lot better than I have.”

“You’re selling yourself short,” Armen said.

“Am I? I’m not so sure.”

Armen stared back at his friend. “I am. Losing Joey would have devastated Penny, as much as it has you. And having you lying in that bed would be as much a torment for her as it is for you. Don’t kid yourself. You were her rock. And you still are. She needs you as much now as she ever did. Maybe more so.”

Brian blinked back tears, shaking his head. “I know that. I just don’t know if I can keep going like this. At least when I was writing, I could lose myself in the story with the characters. But I don’t even have that.”

“You will.”

“Please, tell my agent that,” Brian said, a grim smile turning up the corners of his mouth.

“Nothing has to be decided now. I just wanted to give you the heads up. Of course, she can be here as long as you wish, and I’ll be honored to help with her care. And we’ll both pray for a miracle. Like you say, people are known to beat the odds all the time.”

Brian nodded, staring at the remnants of his beer. “Some people say I beat the odds when it came to my career.... Maybe so.” He raised his head and leveled his gaze at Armen. “But I’d give it all up in a New York minute just to have them back for one more day.”

“I know,” Armen said.

For the rest of their meal, they talked of other things: the Red Sox and whether or not they would repeat their miracle, as well as the fine art prints that were Armen’s passion. An hour later, Brian drove the Viper into the garage of his Beverly Hills home, and sat listening to the ticking of the cooling engine.

Maybe it was time to think about getting on with his life, maybe a change of some kind would spur his writing. Lord knew he needed that. But what did that really mean? Dating? How could he do that? After all, just as Armen had said, she wasn’t brain-dead, but in the shape she was in that might even be a blessing. If she woke now, with her twisted limbs—

Brian pushed that image from his mind and climbed out of the car and headed into the house. After a quick workout on his treadmill and the requisite bench-presses, he showered, dressed and returned to the computer for another round of pointless auto-flagellation. However, when he brought the computer out of sleep mode, instead of finding the familiar blank page for his novel, there was Joanna’s e-mail staring him in the face. He read through it again—twice. It still elicited a disturbing mix of emotions: a quickening of the pulse, a quiver of joy, an overlay of guilt...and anger....

...I have so many unanswered questions, Brian.

“You don’t know the half of it, Joanna.”

He stared at her words for a moment longer, reaching a decision, then picked up the phone and punched in a series of numbers with a rapid staccato. It was picked up on the second ring.

“Romano Public Relations,” a silken feminine voice intoned.

“Hi, Evie, how’s tricks? You’re sounding more like a radio an-nouncer every day.”

The voice giggled and abruptly changed, rising in pitch and taking on the familiar Flatbush accent. “I’m doing better, aren’t I, Mr. Weller?”

“You certainly are. I think you’re ready for Prime Time.”

“And lose this cushy job? Forget about it.” She laughed. “Mr. Ro-mano’s on a call. You want me to have him return?”

“I’ll wait, if that’s okay.”

“Okay, by me.”

Evie clicked off, her voice replaced by a local New York radio station playing classic rock. Brian recognized the song. Boston’s “More Than A Feeling.” Even though he was only ten years old in 1976, when it was originally released, he felt a jab of poignant nostalgia. A perfect mirror of his present mood. Sometimes life was weird that way.

The music cut off.

“Hey, Brian, how’s it hangin’?”

Brian smiled. “About as well as one might expect, Kevin.”

He heard the other man sigh. “Sometimes I’m just an asshole,” Kevin said. “Too much hypola and you start thinkin’ it’s all true. You do sound good. You really okay?”

Kevin Romano was one of those rare types in the Public Relations field who actually gave a damn about his clients and his integrity, a quality Brian cherished. “I’m fine, really.”

“Good. So, what can I do to you today?”

Brian shook his head, his grin widening. The man was incorrigible.

“I need to get out of L.A. for a bit, shake out the cobwebs. You think any of the bookstores in Boston would be interested in hosting some signings for
Vipers
? I know it’s old news—”

“Old news! Are you kidding? Your book’s been in the top-frigging-ten practically forever! They’ll fall all over themselves. You wanna little tour? I’m your man. But why Boston, why not somethin’ a little closer?”

“Got a personal matter to deal with there, so I thought I’d combine it with a little business.”

“Smart boy. You should’ve been a publicity agent.”

“Then I wouldn’t need you.”

“Got me there.” He laughed. “Anyway, give me a couple of days and I’ll let you know what I come up with.”

“One thing, though,” Brian said. “I want a mix of stores, some Mom and Pops, as well as the chains. It gives a boost to those little stores, and it’s the least I can do. Besides, those big places make me feel like I’m in a Wal-Mart.”

“I can get you Target, too.” Kevin said, chuckling.

Brian laughed. “Shut up, you mook.”

“Hey, that’s why I love you, you put up with my lousy jokes.”

“And I’m beginning to wonder why.”

“All right, all right. Call me in a couple of days.”

After a few more moments of small talk, they hung up and Brian faced his computer once again. He clicked on the REPLY button and a new e-mail window appeared with Joanna’s address. He started typing, surprised the words came so easily.

 

August 20, 2006

Dear Joanna:

I must say I was surprised to hear from you after all this time. Pleasantly so. I’ve often thought about you over the years, wondering what you were doing at a given moment, and if you were happy. You see, you made quite an impression on me, too....

Anyway, you know what I’ve been up to, so I won’t bore you with a recitation of my career highlights, but I may be in Boston in the near future for some book signings. I’d love to see you, maybe take you out for dinner, if that’s okay.

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