Three

It was a beautiful morning. I laced up my running shoes and headed out through the neighborhood toward the forest preserve path. The sky was a clear pale blue with feathered clouds off in the distance. I pulled the freshness into my lungs and relished the peace. The air smelled pure, like pine and sunshine, and felt cool on my skin.

It was early and silent. Newspapers still lay rolled up on porches and stoops. One rested on top of a shrub. I loved my neighborhood with its mature trees and houses that weren’t cookie cutter, unlike the new, treeless housing developments. Mostly the houses here were bungalows in varying styles—some Queen Anne, some Prairie, many with dormers and leaded glass. Every so often there was one in need of a little TLC, but generally they were well tended with tidy yards.

As I got closer to the forest preserve, the houses changed in style, becoming a bit larger, more elegant. On Cherry Street I ran past my favorite: a white, two-story colonial with a wraparound porch, a white picket fence, lace curtains, and window boxes that were filled with bright red geraniums in the summertime. It was right out of Father Knows Best. I’d never seen any signs of life, but imagined the woman of the house in a blue shirtwaist with an apron and pearls, serving piping-hot pancakes with big fat squares of melting butter to her smiling, fresh-faced family.

You couldn’t help but be happy in a house like that. I’d always thought that if a For Sale sign went up I’d buy it and live happily ever after with the ready-made family who would move in with me. Now, at fifty, that fantasy needed readjustment.

The forest preserve path was peaceful when I reached it, with just a couple of other runners. Michael didn’t like me to run this path. He thought it dangerous for a woman alone and said I should run on streets where there were people and cars. But it always felt safe to me, and tranquil, so I just didn’t tell him that I did it.

I thought about what Sophie had said, that I needed to give Michael’s proposal serious thought before making a decision. It would be nice to grow old with someone. I did want that. But for some reason it was hard to envision living with Michael, let alone being married to him, and what did that say about our relationship? In all the time we’d been together we’d only talked once or twice about getting married, and then just briefly.

The first time was after we’d been together a couple of months. We’d gone downtown for brunch at Luxbar and then taken a walk up North State Parkway, stopping in front of the yellow rowhouses just north of Division. They were gorgeous. Most of Michael’s business was in the suburbs of Chicago, but occasionally he got a listing downtown. And he knew a lot about the buildings and the architecture.

“These row houses were built in 1875, Lib,” he told me. “They’re spectacular historic buildings and they’ve all been modernized. Really amazing. I saw one a couple years ago on a Realtor’s tour. Incredible.”

“You should buy one,” I said. “What a great place to live.”

“I think they’re a bit over my budget.” He’d looked at me. “But if you went in on it with me…”

I’d laughed. “I could maybe afford the first-floor bathroom.”

He put his arm around me as we walked on, admiring the brownstones with their wrought-iron balconies and huge bay windows.

“Have you ever thought about living downtown?” Michael asked.

“I have, actually. I’d love to. Just not sure I could afford it. How about you?”

“Yeah, I think I would. I don’t think I’d want to do it by myself, but it would be nice to start a new adventure with someone by my side.” He looked at me and smiled, raising his eyebrows Groucho Marx style. “Ya know what I mean?”

I smiled. What did he mean? Was he thinking we should move in together? Already?

“Do you think you’d ever get married again?” he asked.

Holy crap.

I stopped and turned to face him, forcing his arm to slip off my shoulder. “Whoa, slow down,” I’d said. “You’re going to give me a heart attack here.” I chuckled, but really, he was freaking me out.

He studied me, I suppose to see if I was kidding. “Relax,” he said. “I’m not proposing. Honest. Just making conversation.”

“Whew!” I said. “Let’s save this conversation for another time, okay? Maybe when we know more about each other than our favorite restaurant and what kind of vodka we prefer.”

“I feel like I do know you,” he’d said. “It feels like I’ve known you for a long time.” He squeezed my hand. “But don’t worry, I’m not suggesting we elope or anything.”

“Well thank god, because I have nothing to wear.” We continued walking, sunlight peeking through the trees, wind chimes tinkling. It was a clear, crisp day.

“I have to warn you,” I said. “I’m a bit cynical about marriage. Relationships in general, I suppose. I’ve been married twice already and they didn’t take. I’m not chomping at the bit to give it another shot.” It wasn’t news to him that I was a two-time loser but I thought it bore repeating.

“That’s cool,” he’d said. “I hear you. And I don’t want to scare you. It’s not that marriage is a big deal to me, but I guess something long term is.” He squeezed my hand. “And I’m not pushing that either. Time will tell, won’t it?”

He didn’t bring up marriage again for a long time, and when he did, the conversations were always casual, not marry-me-or-else kind of conversations. In the meantime we’d settled in and had a nice, effortless life together as well as our lives apart. It worked for us. It was good, and it took some anxiety out of the relationship that there was no pressure to change our status, that neither of us was worrying about what the other was thinking. And Michael had seemed content with the status quo.

Until yesterday.

Now my feet made a soft thump, thump, thumping sound on the dirt path. Leaves swayed in the light breeze. I thought about how I’d felt with Patrick Harrison so many years ago. There’s a huge difference between being seventeen years old and being fifty, I knew that. I was light-years beyond that kind of adolescent frenzy, but I really wished I felt some of the passion, had just a smidgeon of that out-of-control feeling I’d had back then.

In all the excitement I’d forgotten to tell Sophie about seeing Patrick’s name on SearchForSchoolmates.com. She’d get a kick out of it. His was one of those names we’d often bring up in our nostalgic “Remember the time…” conversations.

I thought about the first time I’d seen Patrick, at a Christmas party my senior year in high school. I’d been talking to Sophie and Pete, who was then her boyfriend, and I’d whispered, “Who’s that?” when Patrick walked in. He wore black jeans and a black leather jacket with a silver chain hanging from his pocket. His hair was long, past his shoulders, much longer than the other guys wore it. Longer, even, than mine. He looked dangerous to me, and very sexy.

Pete had waved him over and I’d stared at Sophie. “You know him?” She’d smiled.

“Patrick, this is Libby,” Pete had said. Patrick’s eyes were soft and brown, and he looked at me in a way no boy ever had before, as if he recognized me from somewhere. It made me feel like I was the only girl in the room. I was appalled to feel myself blushing, but he smiled and took my hand, sending a tingle up my arm.

He said, “Is it corny to say that you are truly beautiful?”

“No!” Sophie said at the same time Pete said, “Yes,” and we all laughed. The air around us shimmered as the music pounded. “Come on,” Patrick said, “let’s dance.” He guided me into the middle of the crowd and we spent the rest of the evening together. Later, when I was in danger of missing my curfew, Patrick drove me home and I sat right up against him on the bench seat of his big black Ford.

Before I got out of the car he put his arm around me and kissed me softly. Then he looked directly into my eyes and said, “So … do you want to be my girlfriend?”

“I do,” I said. And we both had laughed delightedly.

*   *   *

When I got home from my run I went immediately to my computer, without even taking off my sweaty clothes. I pulled up SearchForSchoolmates.com and clicked on Patrick’s name. In order to send an e-mail I had to sign up and pay fifty dollars. Fifty bucks? I hesitated for about two and a quarter seconds. Finally there was the e-mail window with Patrick’s name in the To box and mine in the From.

Patrick, I began.

I have no idea what made me go to SearchForSchoolmates.com, but when I saw your name on the list it made me smile and I had to join just so I could e-mail you. So you owe me $50!

How is it possible that it’s been 32 years?

I have so many fond memories of you. I remember your black leather jacket and your great smile. I remember dancing to Aerosmith and Badfinger. And I remember New Year’s Eve at Jack Bradshaw’s house when we were 17. Whenever anyone asks me about my most memorable New Year’s Eve, that’s the one I describe.

What’s happened in your life? Last I heard (20some years ago) you had moved to Florida. Are you still there?

I hope you haven’t forgotten me—I would be crushed. I hope you are well.

I signed it, wrote Your past comes back to haunt you in the subject line and read it over again. Should I send it? If I did would I tell Michael? Somehow that didn’t seem likely. But what the hell, I thought, and before I could change my mind, clicked Send.

I laughed at the nervousness I felt. What was that all about? Who cared? He was just a guy I’d known a lifetime ago. Big deal if I never heard from him.

But I hoped I would. I hoped he’d write back and say he thought about me every New Year’s Eve at midnight. I hoped that night was indelibly etched in his brain as it was in mine. It was the night, after all, that I lost my virginity.