Within a Man's Heart (6 page)

Nah!
I thought to myself as I got into my Volvo and he backed his truck out from behind me.
That would be too good to be true. Even if he did decide to sell, who knows how much he’d want for it? His price could be way, way out of line. Well, whatever happens, at least Gina will be there.

As soon as that last thought registered in my mind, I jumped all over myself. Giving myself holy hell for thinking about Gina again, I backed out of the driveway, got on the road, and headed back toward the Contented Moose Cabins. Then something strange happened.

The sky before me suddenly grew even darker, and I mean
darker
. It was as if the grim reaper himself were pulling an ominous, blue-gray wall down from the clouds. And in just seconds it came all the way down. It looked as though the entire world had closed in on me. I couldn’t believe it happened so fast. I’d never seen that before.

Then the wind came up out of nowhere. It started blowing like a Category
2 hurricane. And with it came the rain. Horizontal sheets of it peppered the SUV like high-powered shotgun blasts. Turning on my high beams, I put my nose to the windshield and drove into the demonic wall. The impossibly-heavy rain blitzed my windshield as if it hated it. As if it hated who was sitting behind it. So hard was it blowing, that I could barely see through the tempered glass. A couple of times the wind gusted with such force that I had to work like hell to keep the Volvo on the soaking-wet logging road.

The half mile drive seemed like ten by the time I finally came up to Portland Road and stopped. Glad as I was to have reached a paved surface, I still couldn’t see more than ten feet in any direction. I looked both ways to see if there were any headlights coming. None were visible, but I did see something else. It was on a corner of the intersection just a few feet to my left. A flimsy green and white street sign was fluttering atop its thin metal pole as if frightened to death. The words “Elkin Road” shuddered back and forth so fast that I could barely read them. It was if this evil wind detested them, wanted to strip the sign away and send it airborne. Then something else happened.

A tremendous bolt of lightning lit up the entire chaotic scene as it struck a pine tree just beyond the sign. The wide stroke was so close, so bright, that it lit up the Volvo’s hood and my face like a thousand flashbulbs. Everything else turned a blinding white as well. I flinched and jerked my shoulders back as the bolt hit a tree just beyond the sign. Almost immediately a heavy limb came falling down. It fell onto a smaller tree and I could hear the crack, crack, crack as it plowed through a succession of smaller branches. There was a deafening thunder clap as well. BOOM! I thought my ears would split. My two-ton SUV shook like a frightened hamster, the steering wheel trembled in my hands, and I took off for my cabin like an Indy 500 driver coming out of a pit.

“COME ON MAN!” I shouted in a desperate voice as I sped into the dark rain and howling wind. “DON’T BE STUPID! SHE WAS YOUR WIFE
! SHE LOVED YOU!”

Slamming my fist into the steering wheel then, wishing more than believing, I hollered, “ALL THIS IS JUST A COINCIDENCE!”

The Pilot Returns

When I pulled up to the cabin, the rain was still teeming and the wind hadn’t lost much of its mean-spiritedness. But as the afternoon wore on, the storm did pass. It took its fury elsewhere and only left behind a lingering, steady rain. Dreary as it was, I just stayed in the cabin, alone with my thoughts. I tried to read but couldn’t concentrate. My emotions wouldn’t stop wrestling with each other. My thoughts and better judgment were tied up in knots as well. Wrought out as my emotional state had been ever since Elyse’s death, I knew that my sense of reality sometimes wasn’t what it should be. I knew it had been damaged. But as I sat inside with the front door open and the rain dripping off the porch, I did manage to sort
a few things
out.

Of course the rational part of my mind knew that Elyse had absolutely nothing to do with the storm. But the fragile part, that broken part deep inside my head, sometimes found ways to overshadow logic. The takeovers never lasted long, but when they did
, it was always unsettling to say the least. But now I had a grip on myself again. I well knew that Elyse didn’t have the power to ignite the storm. I knew she wouldn’t have started it even if she could. I also believed she probably didn’t dog-ear that page in
Travels with Charley
or trace that route in my atlas. But that
probably
would not go away. I still believed there was a small chance she’d done those things. I actually wanted them to be signs, messages. It might have been my ailing mind, wishful thinking, or pure lunacy that kept me thinking Elyse might have been involved. But whatever it was, I was glad the possibility was still alive. I wanted to believe that her burial hadn’t been the end of her.

As I sat on the end of the sofa closest to the screen door, another revelation occurred to me. I finally allowed myself to believe that Elyse would not have wanted me to be as unhappy as I had been the previous four years. I also realized for the first time that she wouldn’t have wanted me to spend the rest of my life alone. She had loved me too deeply to ever want that. And as the rain continued to fall, I wondered why it had taken me so long to realize something so important, so obvious. Her permission had been there all along. Why hadn’t I seen it sooner? I didn’t know. The best I could figure was that the injured part of my brain had been much larger than it now was. It had been healing
—slowly, but it
had
been recovering. And by late afternoon that gloomy day, I felt better than I had in a long, long time. It was almost as if I were a whole person again. I say “almost” because there was still an annoying asterisk floating in and out of my rare, good mood. And that tiny, black six-point star denoted a question—would my newfound sense of wellbeing last? It seemed like it would, but it also seemed too good to be true.

By dusk it became obvious there wouldn’t be an outdoor barbeque. Not sure how to dress for the party, I stepped out on the porch a couple of times after hearing vehicles driving up the Contented Moose’s entryway. Both times they turned and went to Connie’s place. Both times the folks who got out were dressed the same casual way they would have if they were going to Bobby Bard’s general store or out to mow their lawns. Trying to go as close as I could with the flow, I put on a slate-blue crewneck shirt and clean Armani jeans. But for the second time that day
, I couldn’t help feeling like an out-of-place city slicker. And as I watched myself comb my hair in the bathroom mirror, I vowed to buy myself a few pairs of plain old Levis as soon as I could.

Minutes later, in the near darkness with a twelve-pack of Corona Lights under my arm, I quick-stepped through the rain and puddles over to Connie’s A-frame. As I got closer I could see
Gina’s truck parked out front with several other vehicles. By the time I got to the screen door and knocked on it, butterfly wings were tickling the inside my stomach.  

“Well hello, Chris! Come on in.” Connie said as if I were a longtime friend. “So glad you could make it.”

Spacious as the log cabin’s only room was, it didn’t feel the least bit crowded. Some folks were sitting on the sofa and chairs; others carried on lively conversations while standing. One couple, wearing matching plaid flannel shirts, was dancing near the back wall—working it out pretty good to Creedence Clearwater Revival’s classic hit,
Proud Mary
. I had to smile. As I listened to the line about leaving a good job in the city, it seemed as if the song was being sung to me. But then something else about the tune clicked in my head, and my smile took on a more melancholic look. When I was a little boy,
Proud Mary
had been one of my mother’s favorite songs.
Her name
was Mary. And whenever she’d play that song on our stereo, she, too, would smile as she sang along. Unfortunately, the singing in our apartment didn’t last. Neither did the devil-may-care attitude that my Mom had always had. The cancerous tumor that had been eating away at her left lung put an end to all that. She was the first of the only two women I ever loved to die before their time.

As Connie suggested, I went into the kitchen area and started putting my Coronas into a cooler atop the counter. Once all
, but one, of the bottles were standing in ice with everybody else’s bubbly contributions, I picked up an opener from the counter and popped the last one open. I dropped the metal cap into a trash can and was about to turn my attention back to the party when I heard Gina’s voice. She was standing right alongside me.

“Well hello there, Chris! Good to see you!”

She may have thought it was good to see me
,
but as I turned to look at her
I
was the one who was in for a treat.

“Hey
. . . Gina, how are you?”

She looked even more stunning than the first two times I’d seen her. With all that black hair swept atop her head, those mesmerizing eyes, and long, dangling, silver earrings she was something else. Gina Elkin—this snow-plowing New Hampshire store clerk—could have walked onto any movie set in Hollywood and with a single smile
, turned the most gorgeous actresses ugly with envy. Standing there in a clinging, lavender V-neck and white jeans, she looked exquisite.

Well
. . . would you look at
you
,” she said, checking me out; making me feel like a little boy with a new haircut. “Don’t
we
look handsome tonight?”

“Oh stop!” I said with a somewhat bashful smile, “You don’t look all that bad yourself.”

Taking my arm now, her own smile beaming wider, she said, “Come on, I want you to meet everybody.”

And I did go with her. She introduced me to Bobby Bard
—the Speedo greeter and his strapping son, Hank. They both were very nice and so was everybody else I met. Molly from the Mountain Step Café; Carla Francis— the town’s only librarian; and Luella Anders who owned the “Used Everything” shop all made me feel right at home. So did Mountain Step’s part-time constable, Buster La Porte. A bit on the short side, yet wide as a barn door, Buster had wrists big around as beer cans. Nevertheless, when we shook hands, his grip was firm but not overbearing. He wasn’t like some of those insecure men who feel they need to put the old vice grip on you to make an impression. He was plenty impressive without that, and he made me feel just as welcome as all the other guests did. But what really made me feel good was what Gina did each time she introduced me to somebody. She put her hand on the small of my back, and she seemed in no hurry to remove it.

With each passing minute
, I was becoming more convinced that she was more than just fond of me. She remained right by my side when I talked to the other guests. The only two times she walked away, she was only gone for a moment. Both times she came right back, with a paper plate full of hors d’oeuvres for me. As I talked to the locals, nibbling on piping-hot shrimp and bite-sized lobster rolls, I could feel her enchanting eyes studying me. By the time we settled into two chairs alongside Wally, I was sure that Gina had taken a special interest in me. And it was a good feeling, every bit as warm as her soft hand on my back. Not only did I permit myself to enjoy it, but I welcomed it. I savored it like a starving man would food. Then things got even better. With the fireplace crackling behind us and the aroma of the seafood as thick in the air as the festive spirit, Wally, Gina, and I talked. He was on my right, she on my left, and our chairs were in a semicircle facing everybody else.

We hadn’t been there all that long when I noticed Wally fumbling with an unlit cigarette he had been holding. A moment later he stopped, turned his weathered eyes to mine and said in his slow
, easy way, “Ya know, Chris . . . I’ve been giving some thought to what we talked about this morning. And, well . . . my barn needs a new roof, and I could use a new snow blower and a few other things. I
would
consider selling the cabin. I’ll let three acres go with it . . . two point 75 to be exact. That’d be two-hundred feet fronting the road and roughly six-hundred running to the back on both sides. Would that be enough property for you?”

Gina was watching me even more intently now. Earlier on she had told me that she talked to Wally on the phone that afternoon. But he hadn’t mentioned anything about coming to a decision. Now trying not to appear overeager, but feeling like Wally damn well knew I was, I said, “Well, sure. Three acres would be fine. I’d want to take one more look at the inside and walk around the property a bit, but have you thought about how much you’d want for it?”

Wally came right back without hesitation, “I think a hundred and twenty-five thousand is a fair price.”

“Hmmm,” I said, bobbing my head slowly, “from what little I know about prices in this area that sounds fair enough.”

“Keep in mind, Chris . . . I don’t want to hold any papers. I’m not a young man anymore.”

“Sure. Sure,” I said, waving an open hand, “I understand. The money wouldn’t be a problem. I’ve got a little salted away. There wouldn’t even have to be any bank financing or anything like that.”

I then took a quick glance at Gina. She was sitting on the edge of her folding chair but hadn’t said a thing. She didn’t have to. Her eyes said plenty. I’d have had to be blind not to see excitement and hope in them.