chapter four

By nine-thirty Angel was tucked into bed, well past her bedtime. Another half hour had passed before the girl quit talking and drifted off to sleep. Dave waited for Megan at the Jacuzzi out on the back deck—one of the few places they could talk without interruption.

Dave studied her features as she slid into the bubbling water and closed her eyes: wispy hair curled across her shoulders, slender eyebrows balanced over a freckled nose, lips turned up just enough naturally on each end that she always appeared to be smiling. Even the kids joked that when Mom was angry, she stilled looked happy about it.

If asked about her appearance, Megan would be the first to point out the wrinkles now showing at the corners of her eyes. Dave would contend they only compounded her beauty with added badges of experience and wisdom.

“What?” Megan finally asked, sensing that she was being watched.

“I’m just thinking.”

And he was. In the steamy solitude, his thoughts drifted to the first time they’d met, eighteen years earlier. Psychology 102. He was filling elective credits he needed to graduate; she was just beginning work on what would become an art degree.

Their first class assignment was to bring a picture showing something they feared. By a simple twist of fate, they’d sat adjacent that day, and as she’d laid her photo on the table, one taken in her early teenage years riding Disneyland’s Space Mountain, he leaned forward and picked the curious photo up. It had caught his eye because sitting directly behind the wide-eyed, attractive girl screaming her lungs out from the front seat was Dave. Despite the resemblance, Megan didn’t believe at first that it was him—until he recited the month and year the photo was taken.

It wasn’t the only coincidence. It turned out their families had lived barely two blocks apart, their fathers had attended the same Rotary Club, and, despite multiple college scholarship opportunities elsewhere, each had selected the same university.

They dated for just four months before he proposed, and barely three months later their married life together started. Those had been carefree days . . . a far cry from the current rush.

“Do you think we’re too busy?” Dave finally questioned, letting the thought that had been gnawing at him all week swirl with the steam.

Megan opened her eyes, then tried to whisk his worry away the way she always did, with humor. “We have way too much happening to worry about questions like that.”

“I’m not joking.”

She considered him seriously, took a moment to answer. “Yes, I think we are. But it’s by our own choice, isn’t it?”

“But is it the right choice?”

“What would you cut out?” she asked. “Baseball? Dance? Piano? Better yet, which child should we sell?”

“I’m not sure,” Dave answered, with no hint of a smile, before he clarified, “I mean about the activities, not the child-selling part.”

“For having just won the game, you seem pretty down. What’s wrong?”

His words were quieter now, mixing freely with the sound of anxious bubbles. “Do you ever feel like you’re so busy that you’re letting dreams slip by?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Did you get any painting done today, for example?”

“I finger painted with Angel—does that count?”

“I’m serious.”

“I can see that. Today was my day to help out at the school. You know that.”

“See what I mean? We need more time . . .”

She was relaxing. He was stewing.

“Honey,” she interrupted, “I enjoy my art, but honestly, I can paint anytime. Watching my kids grow up, being there with them, with you—I’m living my dream.”

He heard her assurance, but his eyes answered that he didn’t completely believe her.

“Honestly, what’s the matter?” she asked again.

“I just . . .” The night air seemed to reach down his throat and steal his words, tie up his thoughts. He felt so apprehensive, so unsure how to explain. “I don’t know. I feel . . . well, it’s like the song says, I’m running on ice. My legs are moving, but I’m not going anywhere. I feel like I’m in the dream where you run to catch the train, the last train of the day, and you run and run and run, stretching and stretching, until you’re out of breath and your legs ache . . . but it’s always just out of reach.”

Megan splashed up straight. Her eyes brightened, as if a light had clicked on. “Wait, it’s because of your birthday, isn’t it?”

“What do you mean?”

“You’re turning forty—you’re worried! Honey, it’s still three weeks away, and I’m the one getting the wrinkles. We have a terrific life. Let’s enjoy it.”

His head knew she was right. How could he argue? If only he could convince the anxiety punching at his chest to listen.

“Maybe it’s just the schedule that’s getting to me.”

Megan reached for his hands and locked her eyes on his. “Life is great,” she repeated. “Have a little faith in it, would you?”

“I will,” he said before he hesitated. “Sometimes it just . . . it feels like I’m missing out on something, that’s all.”

“Like what?”

How could he explain it when even he didn’t understand? He had a great job, a terrific wife, amazing children. Why the trepidation? His answer, learned from Megan, was to make light of the situation. Humor to the rescue—when you can’t face the truth, you joke about it.

“You won’t laugh?” he asked Megan.

“Probably. Tell me anyway.”

“I’ve always wanted to buy a motorcycle and ride across the country.”

Megan chuckled. “A motorcycle? Like a Harley?”

“Why not?”

“In your suit and tie?”

“Of course not. I’d get a black leather jacket, the kind with padding on the elbows and zippered pockets.”

“Would you grow a ponytail? Just for me?”

“Sure, and perhaps a beard. I’d ride across the country, until . . . well, until I came to the Golden Gate Bridge. That’s where I’d end up. Did you know my grandfather helped build that bridge? Dad said he loved it. He used to say that it was magical.”

“Yes, you’ve mentioned that. So, you’d ride to the bridge?”

“Not just to it, I’d ride across it.”

“Across the bridge?”

“Yep. It would be the Fourth of July. The sun would be shining. The sky would be bright and clear. A slight breeze would be blowing over the ocean and through my hair.”

“Through your ponytail,” she specified, evidently trying her best to tamp down a laugh.

He nodded. “And people would stare, not daring to say anything aloud, but to themselves—to themselves they would whisper, ‘That guy is so cool.’”

It was born as a playful, fictional scene, sketched in charcoal strokes of black and grey and white, never meant to be taken seriously. But as Dave spoke the words aloud, as they stretched and breathed and filled in space of their own, the vision in his head turned to rich, descriptive color.

Megan let him silently swirl in his moment of glory before asking the obvious. “I am curious, Mr. Ponytail Man. What happens after you cross the bridge?”

Absorbed in the imagery, he let contentment linger. “It wouldn’t matter,” he finally concluded, satisfaction glowing in his face.

“And why not?”

“It wouldn’t matter because at the very moment I crossed the bridge, I’d have experienced the best that life had to offer. I’d have lived my dream. I’d have arrived.”

It was picture perfect.

“I think you’ve been in the hot water way too long,” Megan concluded as she reached her arms around his waist and pulled herself tight, kissing him ever so lightly on the neck. “Let’s get out and go to bed, and I’ll give you something real to smile about.”