The Guardian (25 page)

He rose from the table and opened a drawer; a moment later, a small flame flickered between them. He took his seat again.

"Better?"

"Just like a college dormitory."

"In Paris?"

"Mmm . . . maybe I was wrong. It's more like . . . Omaha."

He laughed. "So are you going to try it, or are you scared?"

"No. I'll try it. I'm just enjoying the anticipation."

He nodded toward her plate. "Good. Then you can figure out a nice way to apologize to the chef."

Julie picked up the sandwich and took a bite. Mike watched her as she seemed to study the flavor.

"Not bad," she said after swallowing.

"Not bad?"

She stared at the sandwich, a faint look of surprise on her face. "Actually it's kind of tasty."

"Told you," he said. "It's the chicken gumbo soup that does it."

She picked up the pickle and winked. "I'll try to remember that."

On Wednesday, it was Julie's turn to make dinner. She prepared sole stuffed with crabmeat and sauteed vegetables, accompanied by a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc. ("It's not Creole burgers, but I guess it'll do," Mike teased.) On Thursday they met for lunch in Emerald Isle. Afterward, while they were walking through the fine sand, Singer jabbed her in the leg with a stick he'd found. He dropped it in front of them, and when they ignored it, he grabbed the stick again, blocking their movement with his body. He looked up at Mike. C'mon, he seemed to be saying, you know the drill."I think he wants you to throw it," Julie remarked. "He doesn't think I throw it far enough."

"That's because you're a girl."

She elbowed him. "Watch it, buster. There's a feminist lurking somewhere in here that takes offense to comments like that."

"Feminists take offense to everything that men do better."

He pulled away before she could elbow him again and grabbed the stick. He pulled off his shoes and socks, then rolled up his pants legs. He jogged toward the water and waded in, high enough for the waves to roll in just below his knees. He held the stick out in front of him. Singer stared at it as if it were a fresh-cut steak.

"Ready?" Mike asked.

He cocked his arm and threw the stick as far as he could. Singer charged into the waves.

Julie took a seat on the sand, pulling her knees up and wrapping her arms around them. It was cool out; the sky was broken with patches of white, and the sun peeked through the clouds sporadically. Terns darted along the water's edge, looking for food, their heads bobbing like darning needles.

Singer came bounding back with the stick and shook the water from his coat, soaking Mike in the process. Mike grabbed the stick, then threw it again before turning Julie's way, his shirt plastered against his skin. From where she was sitting, she could see the muscles in his arms and the way his chest tapered to his hips. Nice, she thought, very nice.

"Let's do something tomorrow night, okay?" he called out.

Julie nodded. When Singer returned, Julie pulled her legs a little tighter and watched them start over. In the distance, a shrimp trawler eked its way over the water, long nets spread behind it. The lighthouse from Cape Lookout flashed in the distance. Julie felt the breeze on her face as she watched them, wondering why she'd ever been worried.

"Putt Putt?" she asked as they pulled into the lot the following evening. She was dressed in jeans, as was he; earlier in the day, he'd told her not to bother dressing up, and now she understood the reason. "This is what you want to do tonight?""Not just that. There's lots of stuff to do. They've got video games, too. And batting cages."

"Oooh," she said. "I'm thrilled."

"Ha! That's just because you don't think you can beat me," Mike said with a sniff.

"I can beat you. I'm like Tiger Woods when it comes to stuff like this."

"Prove it," he said.

She nodded, a gleam of challenge in her eyes. "You're on."

They got out of the truck, and made their way to the booth to get the clubs. "Pink and blue," he said, pointing out the color of the golf balls. "You and me. Mano a womano."

"Which one do you want?" she asked, playing innocent.

"Ha!" he snorted. "Keep it up and I'll show you no sympathy on the course."

"Ditto."

A couple of minutes later, they reached the first hole.

"Age before beauty," she offered, motioning to him.

Mike feigned a look of offense before putting the ball in place. The first hole required the ball to travel through a rotating windmill before it descended to a lower level where the hole was. Mike steadied himself over the ball.

"Watch and learn," he said.

"Just get on with it."

He hit the ball straight, and it passed through the opening in the windmill; after leaving the tube, it ended up less than a foot from the hole. "See? It's easy."

"Step aside. Let me show you how it's done."

She put her ball down and hit it. It bounced off the blades of the windmill and came back to her.

"Mmm . . . so sorry," Mike said, shaking his head. "Too bad."

"Just getting warmed up."

She took a little longer before pulling back and hitting the ball again. This time it made it, and when she looked to see where it would end up, she saw it rolling toward the hole before it vanished from sight.

"Nice shot," Mike conceded. "Lucky, though."

She poked him with the club. "That's all part of the plan."

In a darkened bedroom of the rented Victorian, Richard was sitting in bed, his back against the headboard. He'd pulled the drapes closed. The room was illuminated only by a small candle on the nightstand, and as he rolled a piece of wax between his fingers, he thought about Julie.She had been nice enough at the grocery store, but he knew she'd regretted running into him. He shook his head, wondering why she'd tried to hide it. It was pointless, he thought. He knew exactly who she was. In some ways, he knew her better than she knew herself. He knew, for instance, that she was with Mike tonight and that she saw in him the comfort she'd once had and hoped to find again.

She was afraid of anything new, he realized, and he wished she could see that there was so much more for her out there, so much more for the both of them. Didn't she see that if she stayed here, Mike would drag her down? That her friends would ultimately hurt her? That's what happened when you let fear govern your decisions.

He had learned that from experience. He'd despised his father, as Julie had despised the men who'd moved in and out of her life. He hated his mother for her weakness, just as Julie hated her own mother's weakness. But Julie was trying to make peace with her past by trying to relive it. Fear was leading her to the illusion of comfort, yet in the end, it would remain an illusion. She didn't have to end up the way her mother had; she didn't have to lead the life her mother had. Her life could be anything she wanted it to be. As his was.

"Lucky shot!" Mike cried again. Halfway through the course, the score was tied, until Julie's latest shot, which ricocheted off the wall and dropped into the cup. She swaggered over to retrieve her ball."How come it's always luck when I make it and skill when you do it?" she demanded.

Mike was still staring at the path the ball had taken. "Because it is! There's no way you could have planned that!"

"You sound like you're getting nervous."

"I'm not getting nervous."

Mimicking his action earlier, she ran her fingernails over her chest and sniffed. "You should be. You'd hate to let a girl beat you."

"You won't beat me."

"So what's the score?"

He stuffed the card and pencil into his back pocket. "It doesn't matter. It's the score at the end that's important."

Mike stalked toward the next hole, Julie giggling behind him.

Richard slowed his breathing, concentrating on Julie's image. Even though she was confused right now, he knew she was different from other people. She was special, better, like him.It was that secret knowledge of his uniqueness that had sustained him in one foster home after the next. Aside from a few articles of clothing, the only items he'd brought with him were the camera he'd stolen from one of his former neighbors and the box of photographs he'd taken.

The first people who took him in seemed nice enough, but for the most part, he ignored them. He came and went as he pleased, wanting nothing more than a place to sleep and food to eat. As in many foster homes, he was not the only child, and he shared a room with two older boys. It was these two boys who stole his camera two months after he'd moved in, selling it at a pawnshop in order to buy cigarettes.

When Richard found them, they were playing in the vacant lot next door. On the ground was a baseball bat, and he reached for it. They laughed at first, since they were both taller and heavier. In the end, however, they were rushed to the hospital in a pair of ambulances, their faces crushed beyond recognition. The foster care caseworker wanted to send Richard to a juvenile detention center. She'd come to the house later that day with the police, after his foster parents had reported him. Richard was handcuffed and driven to the station. There, he'd sat on a hard wooden chair across from a burly officer named Dugan in a small mirrored room.

Dugan, with his pockmarked cheeks and bulbous nose, had a way of rasping as he spoke. Leaning forward, he told Richard how badly he'd injured the boys and that he was going to spend the next several years locked away. But Richard hadn't been afraid, just as he hadn't been afraid when the police had come to question him and his mother about his father. He'd known this was coming. He looked down, then began to cry.

"I didn't want to do it," he said quietly. "But they took my camera, and I told them I would report it to the caseworker. They were going to kill me. I was scared. One of them attacked me-with a knife."

With that, Richard opened his jacket and Dugan saw the blood.

Richard was taken to the hospital; he'd been slashed across his lower stomach. The only reason the wound wasn't more serious, Richard claimed, was that he'd managed to twist free from their grasp at the last minute. Dugan found the knife on the warehouse roof, exactly where Richard said he'd seen one of the boys throw it.

The two boys, not Richard, were sent to the juvenile detention facility, despite their pleas that neither of them had ever touched the knife, let alone slashed Richard with it. But the man at the pawnshop said he'd bought the camera from them, and no one believed their protests. They both had records, after all.

Years later, Richard saw one of the boys in the neighborhood, walking on the opposite side of the road. He was a man by then, but when he saw Richard he froze; Richard simply smiled and kept on walking, remembering with disdain the cut he'd so easily inflicted upon himself.

Richard opened his eyes. Yes, he knew from experience that all hurdles could be overcome. Julie simply needed the right person to help her. Together, they would be able to accomplish anything, but Julie had to want him to do this for her. He needed her to accept what he had to offer.

Was that too much to ask?

"What's the score now?" Julie asked.They were on the final hole, Mike looking serious now. He knew he was a shot down; his first shot had gone off course and had stopped behind a protruding rock, making the next shot impossible to sink. He wiped his brow, ignoring the grin on Julie's face.

"I think you might be ahead," he said. "But don't choke on the final hole."

"Okay," she said.

"Because you might lose if you do."

"Okay."

"I mean, you'd hate to throw it away at the end."

"Okay."

"So whatever you do, make sure you don't even make the slightest mistake."

"Mm . . . you're right, coach. Thanks for the pep talk."

She put her ball in place and stood over it, her eyes flickering from the ball to the hole and back again. She hit her next shot, and the ball rolled steadily, coming to rest an inch from the hole. I wish I had a camera, she thought when she glanced at Mike; the expression on his face was priceless.

"Looks like the pressure's on," she commented, rubbing it in. "I think you have to sink this one just to tie, and from where you are, you can't make it."

Mike was staring at her ball before he finally looked her way and shrugged. "You're right," he admitted. "It's over."

"Ha!"

He shook his head. "I hate to admit this, but I wasn't really trying tonight," he said. "I let you win."

Julie hesitated only briefly before charging him with her club raised as Mike made a halfhearted attempt to flee. She caught him, spun him around, and pulled him close.

"You lose," she said. "Admit it."

"No," he said, meeting her eyes. "You got it wrong. I might have lost the game, but I think I won the match."

"How so?"

He smiled, leaning in to kiss her.

Richard rose from the bed and walked to the window. Peering outside, he saw shadows stretching across the property, blanketing the ground in darkness.In time he would tell Julie everything about himself. He would tell her about his mother and father, he would tell her about the boys at the foster home, and he knew she would understand why he'd had no choice but to do what he'd done. He would tell her about Mrs. Higgins, the school counselor who had taken a special interest in him in high school, once she discovered he'd been orphaned.