Chapter 14

The man’s hair was dusky brown and his eyes shone an intense gray-green. His high cheekbones and the fine line of his jaw glistened with dampness. As he looked at her, the small crescent-shaped scar above one eyebrow reddened perceptibly. The man was somehow embarrassed, maybe even afraid, but she could not see why that should be.

The day seemed normal. Somewhere a car honked, and in the distance a small airplane droned. The silent neighborhood seemed poised and waiting, but then the neighborhood always seemed that way.

“Mrs. Morgan? Are you all right?”

Meredith gasped. Was she all right? Words lost their meaning with this man standing across from her. What was she going to say? I spent all night making love to you? She had feared this man, then had made love to him. He had caressed and moved against her body.

“Here, let me get that.”

He stooped and began gathering the broken remains of the bookend. With his head turned away, Meredith tried to tell herself she was only imagining the resemblance, as she had imagined his voice calling a moment ago. Yet the same voice spoke now, stammering an apology for having startled her. The similarity was too strong. Either the illusion had finally appeared in the flesh, or the man in her dreams actually straightened to his feet in front of her now.

Meredith knew she should speak. She tried to find words, but fear and fascination overcame her and she merely stared.

“Perhaps I should go,” he said hesitantly, looking as if he wanted to run away. He laid the splintered wood on the counter.

“Oh, no. Please. I’m sorry,” she stammered. “It’s just that I, I’m sorry, you look like . . .”

“Someone you know? People say that a lot. Common face, I guess. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

Meredith moved to retrieve the chips of wood, then drew back, holding them, frightened by the power of his nearness. “No, I’m sorry. Are you sure we haven’t met? I mean, have we met?”

The man’s brow furrowed. “Maybe around Mabton. Live here all your life? We, that is, I did.”

“Actually we just moved here. From up north a month ago.”

“Then it can’t be.” The man’s lips widened in a smile. “I’ve been out of town all month. Job interviews. I explained why I wanted to sell”—he paused, then hurried on—”to sell a few things? I mean about going to Europe for my job?”

“Oh, yes.” Meredith let the shattered remains of the bookend drop into a trash bag. She felt as if she were playing a part in a bizarre play, suddenly thrust onstage, uncertain of her lines, but compelled to act a scene she could not quite remember.

Her heart fluttered and her skin was damp with a light sweat. She felt embarrassed that her hair was messily tied back by a scarf, that her work clothes were smudged and gritty from the dust in the pantry. She glanced around the kitchen. Everything was reassuringly normal, red flowers arranged on the table and the breakfast dishes drying in the rack. It was all the same, yet entirely different.

“You brought things to sell,” she said stupidly. “I guess you want to bring them in.”

The man noticed her glance at the room. “The kitchen looks wonderful,” he said suddenly. “I like the color.”

“Of course, you could bring them in here.” She realized the import of his words. “Oh, you mean the new color. Have you been here before?”

He looked quickly away. “No, of course not,” he fumbled. “I figured, I mean, since you just moved, looks like new paint. “

Meredith studied him. The man was lying, and he wasn’t a good liar. She could not figure out why he was lying. He avoided her gaze.

“Well,” he said, squaring his shoulders, “better get moving. Did you want the boxes in here?”

Meredith took a deep breath and tried to gather her thoughts. The intimacy of last night’s dream welled up in her, a powerful undercurrent beneath the roles they seemed to be playing. Never before had she felt attracted to another man, but the awareness of his body felt like the approach of an enormous wave, beautiful but deadly. She imagined him returning with the things he had brought, then settling down in the kitchen for a cup of coffee.

“No, on the patio. I’ll open the doors,” she blurted out. “You go ahead. I’ll be there in a minute.”

“Some yard sale you’ll have if this weather keeps up. They say it’ll clear later, though.” He pulled on his hat, pushed open the screen door, and was gone.

Meredith’s legs felt weak as threads. She leaned heavily against the side of the sink and stared at the reflection her face cast on the rain-spattered window. She looked terrible. Her lips were pale and all the color had drained from her face. Wisps of dark hair trailed from beneath the edge of her scarf, and a smudge of dust shadowed one cheek. She hesitated to look down at the shapeless, faded overalls she had chosen to suit the morning’s work.

On an impulse, she hurried to the bathroom. She kept a small makeup kit there and as she hastily scrubbed her face and applied a dab of lipstick, she wondered faintly why it mattered. The man outside was a total stranger, perhaps only resembling the one in her dreams. She felt guilty, but could not resist the impulse to free her hair from the scarf and comb it quickly into place. As she stepped onto the patio moments later, she no longer felt afraid that the man would find her plain and unattractive.

He was handsome. She had paused to study him through the glass door before turning the knob, and the illusion, if it was an illusion, persisted. Arthur Watson was the man in her dreams, slightly older perhaps, but the same. He looked tired, as if worry or travel had prematurely aged his features, and his clothes were a bit too large. She wondered if he had recently lost weight, but his movements were strong and agile as he lifted a heavy carton onto the patio table. Meredith felt a pang of regret that she had not invited him to bring the boxes indoors.

“There you are,” he said. “I hope this is all right. I mean, piled out here. And that it’s not too much. You’re doing me a favor, after all, I don’t want to impose.” His words trailed off, embarrassed at the flurry of apology.

“No, that’s fine. I’m glad you brought them.”

They stood facing each other, Meredith fascinated simply to stare at him, his gaze mild but perplexed. The moment lengthened into awkwardness, carrying the odd illusion of two statues posed within a rustling curtain of rain. Meredith’s heart pounded. She wanted to reach to him, pull his body hard against her own and hold on tightly. The need felt urgent and obvious, as if doing anything else would be dishonest. She willed herself to remain still, to behave normally and say something. No words came. Her thoughts felt muddy and vague, eerily uncertain like the thoughts of a young and timid girl.

“I’ll get the last box.” He turned suddenly and stepped back through the transparent curtain of rain. He walked to a small yellow car parked in the drive.

Meredith glanced at the cardboard carton that lay open on the seat of a lawn chair. On top were two wooden napkin rings, a few pearl gray linen napkins, and a copy of a popular paperback on child rearing. The book looked well thumbed, but as she surveyed the other boxes she found no children’s toys or small clothing. One carton held only kitchen items: wooden spoons, a spatula, two plates, cups, and glasses. She wondered what had happened to make him sell off his household. Divorce? Of course he had said he was moving to Europe. Perhaps it was cheaper to start anew than to pay for air freight.

Footsteps splashed on the walk and Meredith drew her hand back, pretending to be busy arranging space for the last box.

“There, that’s all of it.” He slid the last carton onto the table. “This one’s mostly books.”

Meredith tried to remember appropriate words. “You put prices on?”

“Thought I’d better not. I mean if you don’t mind, just take what you think they’re worth. Or whatever people offer. I know this is an imposition . . . if you’d prefer, I could stay out here and write some.” Arthur Watson seemed as confused as she was. He sounded apologetic.

It was her turn to speak. The man looked at her, but words seemed like distant memories she could not quite recall. She remembered the dream. This was exactly how she had felt fumbling for something to say in his company. She was the young girl at Mantazilla, embarrassed even to speak, sure that whatever she said would be wrong. She could feel her own knowledge fading behind the wooziness the other mind cast over her own.

I am Meredith Morgan, she reminded herself. I am a capable professional counselor. I am not some timid little girl. “No, that’s fine,” she said. “I’m pricing anyway. Can you come by Saturday?”

His intense eyes widened. “Saturday? No, I can’t, I’m busy. Why?” He seemed nearly frightened.

“But you want the proceeds?”

“Oh, yes, the money. That’s right. Listen, you take half. More, if you don’t think that’s fair. You can mail me a check.” With relief, he pulled a small vinyl booklet from an inside coat pocket. He tore a sheet from the back and extended the slip of paper to her. “I’m leaving Wednesday, but it should get there in time. If you don’t mind mailing it Sunday . . .”

“I’d be glad to.” Meredith’s fingers shook as she withdrew the deposit slip and stared at the address. The hand she had taken it from belonged in last night’s dreams, gently caressing the tips of her breasts.

Meredith took a deep breath and concentrated on what she should say. “I’m really happy I could help. Lucky you saw the sign out front just when you had things to sell. Assuming, anyway, that I sell anything.”

The laugh she forced came out too high, but Arthur Watson seemed not to notice. His gaze traveled past her to study the cartons on the table.

“Mind if I sit down?” Without waiting for a reply, he folded into a chair. His hands gripped his kneecaps as if bracing against a wave of emotion. “It was lucky,” he said quietly. All the strength seemed to have drained from his body.

“I hope this is the right thing,” he said at last, looking away from the cartons. “Sorry, my wife and I, we’re, uh, no longer together. I guess this is harder than I expected.” His face failed to conceal a sadness that was alive and immediate. His mouth hardened with control, but he was near tears.

“Of course.” Meredith heard her best professional tone enter her voice. She remembered many of the clients she had helped through painful divorces. “Can I get you a glass of water? A cup of coffee? You should come inside, Mr. Watson. I’m being rude.”

“Arthur, please. No, you’ve been kind enough.” He pushed himself firmly to his feet. “I have to pick up airline tickets, pack, run all around town.” He gave a small, tired laugh. “Anything that doesn’t sell, I mean you could, uh, anything that doesn’t go, maybe Goodwill? Or keep it for yourself.” He winced at the words.

“They won’t be thrown away,” Meredith assured him.

Arthur smiled and pulled on his hat. “Thank you, Mrs. Morgan.”

“Meredith.”

“Thank you. Meredith.” He turned and walked back into the rain.

Meredith watched him get into the car. He waved once through the windshield, and the small yellow car backed from the drive. As it disappeared up the street, Meredith sank into a chair and covered her face with her hands. Her fingers were icy cold.

He was gone. He had been right here, the exact man, and he was gone. Terrible loneliness mixed with grief cut through her. She tired to pretend he was still there but the illusion would not take hold. She was alone. Only a moment ago they had stood not three feet from each other, and now he was gone forever.

She pulled back the flap of the last box his hands had touched. A plaid wool shirt lay beneath a handful of books. One of his shirts. She yanked it loose and pressed the rough wool to her face, breathing in its scent. Tears welled up. Meredith wept into the cloth, which had a faint fruitlike fragrance. She sobbed, and it also seemed that sobbing was coming from the dark gray living room, an inconsolable grief.