Dear Adam (12 page)

I'm not ashamed of how old I am. I've earned
every one of my years.

----------

From: Adam -

Date: On Tue, Aug 7, at 3:03 PM

To: Eden E

No, no, no! You misunderstand me. I admire
you very much. I was just chiding you in how you want to fuss over
me, not trying to make you feel bad about your age. That's not even
a concern with me.

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From: Eden E

Date: On Tue, Aug 7, at 3:07 PM

To: Adam -

I don't think so. You act like I should feel
bad that I care about your well being.

I'm proud of being a mother. It's been part
of my identity all of my adult life, and when you make fun of me
for being a mother, you insult me.

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From: Adam -

Date: On Tue, Aug 7, at 3:09 PM

To: Eden E

That’s not it at all. I’m just not used to
anyone fussing over me. No one ever has.

I admire you very much for being a single
mother. You seem very strong and very warm at the same time. It's a
very attractive combination.

Ask me again tonight. My answer should ease
any misgivings you feel.

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From: Eden E

Date: On Tue, Aug 7, at 3:15 PM

To: Adam -

Oh. I’m sorry I was harsh.

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From: Adam -

Date: On Tue, Aug 7, at 3:17 PM

To: Eden E

Our wires were crossed. Bound to happen in
this medium of communication. I appreciate the apology.

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From: Eden E

Date: Tue, Aug 7, at 3:30 PM

To: Adam -

Sorry - Have to finish something from this
morning. 5?

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From: Adam -

Date: Tue, Aug 7, at 3:31 PM

To: Eden E

5 it is. So that's in an hour and a half
yes?

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From: Eden E

Date: Tue, Aug 7, at 3:33 PM

To: Adam -

YES!

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From: Adam -

Date: Tue, Aug 7, at 3:34 PM

To: Eden E

OK!

The last hour of her work day simultaneously
dragged and went too fast. Eden felt as she did when she was about
to listen to Adam’s voice for the first time – unable to bear the
excitement and dreading it all at once. What if it was painfully
awkward? What if they had nothing to talk about? What if the
electricity in their e-mails vanished when they spoke to each other
in real time?

4:30 on the dot, Eden shut down her computer
and was about to dash out the door, when she ran into one of the
cops walking in, almost falling into his arms. It was Beau, the
newbie.

"Oh, geez, I'm sorry!" Beau said,
reddening.

"It's totally my fault. I'm just -" Eden said
apologetically.

"Ready to get outta here, huh?"

"Yeah."

Eden looked down at this hands, which were
still holding her. Embarrassed, Beau dropped them and reddened even
more. In all her years at the office, Eden had never seen a cop
blush. Was it because he was so young or because he hadn't been on
the streets that long?

She tried not to look impatient, but Beau
didn't seem to want to move. He just kept looking at her. She
pointedly glanced at the door behind him. He immediately stepped
aside.

"Thanks!"

"See you later, Eden."

"See you!"

Once she was out the door, Eden ran to her
car. She tried not to drive home too fast, forcing herself to be
calm and careful.

A man, halfway across the world, beyond the
sea, waiting for her to come home. It hardly felt real.

Eden jumped out of her car and flew down the
sidewalk. She fumbled with her keys at the front door – now of all
times, to be clumsy and slow. Finally she got the door open. She
ran up the stairs to her bedroom while digging in her purse for her
iPod and earbuds. As soon as her iPod logged into her home wireless
network, she turned on her Skype app. Immediately, a message came
up from an “Adam” requesting to be her contact. She accepted, then
her iPod started vibrating and a pleasant little jingle came
on.

Her heart was thundering in her chest by this
time. She pressed “Answer.”

“
Hello,” she said,
breathless.

“
Hello,” She recognized his
voice. Sensuous, intoxicating. She sat down on her bed, suddenly
weak. “Late, I dare say, typical woman."

She laughed, hearing the warmth in his
teasing.

“
I can explain.”

She forced herself to speak slowly, knowing
that when she was nervous, she spoke so fast she was almost
incomprehensible.

“
There was
traffic.”

“
Oh?”

“
And stoplights. And
pedestrians, lots. But I only hit one of them in my haste to get to
you. An old woman. She’ll live.”

“
What?"

“
Just kidding." She
laughed, hearing his concern. He started laughing too.

“
Hey!" she said in
surprise. “You laughed.”

“
Yes.”

“
Your voice is so deep,”
she remarked shyly.

“
Because of the
hour."

“
Thank you for staying up
for me.”

“
Thank you for not letting
an old woman get in the way of our talk.”

She giggled at this, smiling so hard her face
could break. She wondered if he was smiling too. Though they had
said only a few words, she could already tell that there was no
lack of electricity between them.

“
My heart’s beating so
fast." She said this a shade above a whisper.

He said nothing to this, not even a little
joke. It struck her that despite his self-assured e-mails, he was
now nervous, just as she was. This was both their first time
talking on the phone to someone they've never met.

"You wrote something about the town library
the other day," she said quickly, remembering one of his early
e-mails. "How you were meeting with builders about it. What was
that about?"

"Not the town library," he corrected. "My own
personal library. For my house."

Eden's heart started beating even more
wildly.

"Oh?" she croaked.

"I have thousands of books, all in storage in
the UK. Once my library's built, I'll have them shipped here. This
house is such a ruin. An old mill, I think I told you, from the
1800s. I've got running water and electricity but otherwise it's
uninhabitable. There's an enormous wooden water wheel in the middle
of one of the walls. Gets drafty at night."

"So it needs a lot of work?"

"Yes. Renovation starts in about a month and
it will probably take about a year. But I'm not in any hurry. The
first thing I'd like to do is get it all sealed up before winter,
though."

"Tell me where you are in your house. What's
it like right now."

"I'm sat on my favorite chair. Big, brown
leather. All the lights are out. I like the dark. I'm not afraid of
it."

Eden lay across her bed, settling in. Though
she was excited, his voice had a soothing, storytelling quality
that was mesmerizing. He sounded even sexier in conversation. Was
she ever in trouble.

"What's your favorite book?"

"
Crime and Punishment
by Fyodor
Dostoevsky. It's one of the few books I take with me everywhere I
go. That and a volume of Hemingway's letters. I re-read them every
so often."

Hemingway again. Not only did he admire the
man's work, but it seemed he identified with the man himself.
Masculine, larger than life. Gifted.

But Dostoevsky was a revelation. Such an
intense and weighty novel, about a killer's rationalization of
committing murder for a greater good.

"Why is that your favorite?"

"It's insightful. Very dark. Beautiful and
hopeless. Dostoevsky's brilliant."

She would have to ponder on
the deeper meaning of this choice later. One's favorite book was a
window to the soul. What did
Crime and
Punishment
reveal about Adam's
psyche?

"How did you find me?" This was a question
she had purposely saved so that she could hear the answer and read
his voice.

"Because I was looking for
a review of
The Angel's Shadow
and yours was the best."

She had meant to surprise him but was
disappointed when he sounded tickled by her suspicious tone
instead. He had known she would ask and had prepared a flattering
reply. Though she was flattered, she was loathe to admit.

He cleared his throat. "This picture of you,
where was it taken?"

"What?"

"In Skype."

"Oh." She had uploaded a favorite picture as
an avatar for her Skype account the night before. "In a creek, near
my house."

"You're holding something in your hand, what
is it?"

"A camera. I was taking pictures of
dragonflies." The picture had been shot earlier in the year, a hot
spring day. She was wearing a sleeveless white dress, standing in
the middle of the stream, surrounded by trees.

"It's too small to see on my iPad. Can you
send me a larger picture file via e-mail so I can see it
clearly?"

"Now?"

"If it's not too much trouble."

"Okay. Hold on." She put him on hold as she
searched through her iPod's camera album. She e-mailed it to
him.

There was a thoughtful silence as he looked
at it.

"The way the sun is lighting up your hair ...
" he murmured, not exactly in admiration, but as though he was
describing a painting. Detached, matter of fact. "The color of your
skin. You have a beautiful shape. Exotic looks. You must have
men---"

"Enough about my appearance," she
interrupted, embarrassed. Scrutiny made her uneasy, as when a man
stared at her too long, too boldly. Though he said nothing on the
other end, she could tell he was surprised. She sensed that he was
noting her reaction, his mind calculating rapidly as he had been
since the beginning of their conversation.

"I want to know what you look like."

“
What would you like to
know?" He sounded amused, like he had guessed correctly how long it
would take for her to ask.

“
If you grew your hair,
what color would it be?”

“
Light brown. Blue eyes,”
he added before she’d had a chance to ask. “Six foot
one.”

“
Do you know how tall I
am?” she asked timidly. “Five foot one.”

“
Jesus! A whole foot
shorter,” he mocked.

“
I’m what you call
well-built,” he continued, with a touch of pride. “Pale. With my
head shaved, people tell me I look like a Russian
criminal."

"Do people look at you wherever you go?"
Intuition told her that his looks attracted quite a bit of
attention. But not in a positive way.

"Yes," he replied simply. "Airport security,
in particular, take one look at me and set me aside for a thorough
search. And my bags. Every time."

He looked menacing then.
Thuggish. Scary. Perhaps
Crime and
Punishment
described true events in his
life? Yet with the heart of a poet …

"You'll never send me a picture of you," she
stated. It wasn't a question.

"No. Like I said, I don't trust computers. I
don't trust the Internet."

She could tell that in this subject, he was
immoveable. It was a sensible position to take and he was answering
all her questions, as he had from the beginning. Yet the more she
found out, the more mysterious he seemed. She was certain he was
hiding something, but decided not to press him.

"You usually wear all black," she remembered
him writing. "When did that start?"

"When I was fourteen."

"Do you like wearing suits?"

"Yes. That's one of the reasons why I like
living in Sicily. It's very old-fashioned here. Men still wear
trousers and jackets every day. Every morning when I have to work I
polish my shoes."

"Old school. And the women wear dresses?"

"Yes."

That should be a warning to her. He was a
manly man who probably liked ultra-feminine, old-fashioned women.
So why was he interested in her?

As though he were reading her mind, he asked,
"Do you consider yourself a feminist?"

"Yes," she answered warily.

"A feminist in the modern sense or
traditional?"

"I don't hate men if that's what you mean.
I'm raising one, after all. I don't believe that women should
subjugate men in order to feel powerful, or be necessarily in
opposition to men in order to advance in society. I believe in
equality between the sexes." She tried to keep from sounding like
she was on a soapbox. But if he was turned off, he was turned off.
Better to be upfront about their beliefs than continue under
misapprehension.

“
Does that have anything to
do with why you box and take Krav Maga?”

“
Uh, no.” She wondered if
he was reconsidering her, but she had warned him that she wasn’t as
feminine as she seemed.