chapter nineteen

First thing Monday, I stretch on my running clothes and take my biweekly jog through the streets of the city. I end, as always, at my father’s favorite deli, several blocks east of the house, to sip my morning herbal tea and cool down—a choice my father could never understand. I’d tell him that herbal tea is an acquired taste; he’d answer that “acquired” means it tastes nasty. Although I love coming to this deli to reminisce, I never know if I’ll leave with a chuckle or a tear. It turns out that a woman’s feelings are a lot like herbal tea—hard to explain.

I am so caught up in my thoughts that, at first glance, I don’t notice the man who has stepped into the line to order. He is wearing a suit and a tie and reading an order scribbled on a yellow sticky note. His hair is trimmed, his shoes are shined, and he flirts with the girl behind the counter.

I wear no makeup, I am dripping in sweat, my T-shirt smells, and I feel bloated in these tight shorts. As he walks past, I shield my face with my hand and lower my eyes. He pays no mind—doesn’t notice me at all.

Artfully balancing several cups of coffee, he opens the door and treks across the street. I watch from the window and consider following him to discover where he works. It soon becomes apparent there is no need. He approaches the entrance to a large, glass-covered office building nearby, waits as a suit-clad woman politely opens the door, and then follows her inside.

I’ve been so caught up in the life of Patrick O’Riley lately—so enthralled by his romance with Anna and so intrigued by the mystery of the journal—that for many days I’ve forgotten there is misery still hiding in my heart.

It is best that I didn’t force an encounter with the man who ordered the coffee . . . not because of how I look today, but because of how I may react when we eventually speak. You see, that man—the one who came into my father’s favorite deli, who is apparently working at an office a mere handful of blocks away from where I live—is Eric Aldridge.

Betrayal is a damning sin. Not only does hatred often spawn in the heart of the one betrayed, but guilt begins to grow like mold as well. I’ve learned that it was easy, when the offense first occurred, to douse the offending party with blame. I’ve also discovered since that some of that blame, in the form of guilt, can slosh out to dampen the one holding the bucket.

It’s an emotion I have yet to fully understand. If it was Eric who made the decision to cheat with another woman in our apartment, why do I always find myself looking inward for answers?

I don’t shed tears on my walk home—I’ve shed too many over Eric. And yet at the same time, I feel my wound begin to pull open again and bleed. This time, however, something inside is different. I can’t say what compels me, what suddenly drives me forward, but as I arrive home and sit down to work on my report, I resolve to find closure.

I decide to talk once more with Eric.

If Redd was going to get paid to teach Dave how to ride, he’d vowed to do it right. They would start in the classroom. The anxious teacher had set up two chairs in the back warehouse against a spotless stainless-steel table that only days before had been strewn with parts.

It was time to begin.

Using his own bike as the main prop, Redd taught Dave in two and a half hours more than he could have learned in two and a half months on his own. The man explained the design, the disc brakes, the V-twin, air-cooled engine. He showed Dave how the fuel mix is precisely injected to maximize the thrust.

He taught him the history, how in 1894, Hildebrand & Wolfmüller became the first production motorized bikes in the world to be called motorcycles. He described how others followed: George Hendee with the Indian in 1901, Bill Harley and the Davidson brothers with the first Harley-Davidson in 1903.

He expounded on the notion that while production bikes were fine for the average schmo, in truth, nobody wants to be average. He preached that no two riders have the same tastes, and so every serious bike rider should have a customized machine to match those tastes.

He moved on to talk about the accessories, the maintenance, the nostalgia, the image. And after all was said and done, he even taught Dave how to properly inflate the tires.

Dave sucked in every word. He made observations, asked questions, pondered, and listened. He put to memory all he could and wrote notes for everything else.

Indeed, the bikes were sleek and overwhelming. However, after a little education, once you were formally introduced, once you shook their hands and looked them in the eyes, it was easy to see past their shapely exterior—there was power in those pistons.

On his first visit to the showroom, Dave had been intimidated. Now, after an evening of instruction and illumination, the bikes were approachable, even congenial. While they may have started out as cheerleaders, beauty queens, and supermodels, they were quickly becoming the girl next door—more Mary Ann than Ginger. As Redd watched Dave’s perception shift, he knew it was time for the man and the bike to hold hands.

“That’s all I have, Dave. If there are no more questions, it’s time.”

“We’re done for the day?”

“Not at all. It’s time to take a ride.”

• • •

Of the three BikeHouse focus groups slated for phase one of the study, the first was scheduled to begin at eight a.m. at the Marriott hotel near Brock’s apartment. Staff in other cities would be conducting similar clinics simultaneously. Dave, Brock, and half a dozen Strategy Data employees arrived to set up a few minutes before seven. Dave was directing the show.

It was the usual drill, one he’d orchestrated countless times; today would be no different. At a few minutes before the hour, the first survey participants began to filter in to the grand ballroom. Before letting a soul even think about picking up a pencil, they fed them all a hot and hearty breakfast. It was the first rule of market surveys—keep the people happy, keep them involved. If they get hungry, angry, tired, or irritable, especially before the questioning phase begins, then emotions can take over, causing what the researcher fears most—skewed data.

As people finished eating, Brock and Dave used a computer to divide them into separate survey groups, an exercise they hoped would create a cross-section of America—a tidy slice of the world that would expose opinions, habits, prejudices, perceptions, likes, and dislikes. The game was to figure out, through a series of questions, observations, and algorithms, just what made people tick. More important, the job of Strategy Data International was to divine the data, sift through the answers, and analyze every response—collectively and individually—to discover, through it all, who was most likely to purchase a BikeHouse customized motorcycle and why.

After all the people were surveyed and all the questions had been answered, resulting data was tallied into a laptop and then transferred to the office, where more in-depth analysis could begin. It had gone smoothly—just like old times when Dave and Brock had worked together on the same account. Now, with the last of the equipment loaded, Brock jumped into Dave’s car, and they headed to the office.

The conversation was light—golf, women, the survey, and, in particular, Brock’s concerns with Jeanine. It was amusing conversation, normal conversation, and Brock couldn’t help but notice the improvement, especially as Dave chuckled over the radio announcer’s sports jokes.

Others at the office had also mentioned Dave’s demeanor, his dramatic turnaround since the doctor visits—and since the BikeHouse account had materialized. Ellen had especially taken note.

Dave’s mood today certainly confirmed his place on the road to recovery. He seemed so sure-footed and back to normal that Brock was caught off guard by Dave’s final question as they approached the office parking structure. It was asked with a laugh, but seeping with serious undertones.

“Do you ever get the urge to keep on going?”

“Say what?”

“When you drive to work: do you ever want to pass up the parking lot and—you know—just keep on driving?”

“To where?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think that’s the point. I just wonder if it wouldn’t be an adventure to keep on going to wherever the road leads.”

Brock, at first puzzled, turned agreeable. “Yeah, good idea, let’s do it right now. We could go across the country—soup kitchen to soup kitchen—begging money for gas. It would be fun.”

“I’m serious.”

“I know, I can see that. That’s why you’re scaring me.” Brock tried to read his friend’s eyes. “Look, buddy, you’ve got a decent six-figure income and stock options that will make you a millionaire. Be patient. Make your fortune first, then buy your Winnebago.”

Dave shrugged lightly. “You’re probably right.”

“Besides, you can’t just take off,” Brock added.

“Why not?”

“I have Mets tickets again next week. If you don’t go, then I’ll have to take Jeanine from accounting, and she’s smothering me.”

When Dave laughed aloud, it was such an instant and complete change in demeanor that it was Brock’s turn to stare and wonder.

“What?” Dave questioned.

Brock reached over and slapped him on the shoulder. “I won’t be able to let you drive alone to work anymore, will I?”

Dave shrugged, signaled, braked, and then turned methodically into the company parking garage.