Page 26 of The Guardian

Mike struggled with the sheet and sat up in bed as he recognized her voice. "I am now."

"So come on. The day's a-wastin'," she said. "Up and at 'em, Private."

Mike rubbed his eyes, thinking that she sounded as if she'd been up for hours. "What are you talking about?"

"The weekend. What do you have planned?"

"Nothing, why?"

"Well, get up and get dressed. I was thinking we might head to the beach together. It's supposed to be a great day. I figured we could bring Singer and let him run around for a while. Does that sound good to you?"

They spent the day walking barefoot through the white sand, throwing a Frisbee for Singer, and sitting on towels as they watched foam curl atop the waves. They grabbed a pizza for lunch, stayed until the sky was purple with early dusk, and had dinner together as well. From there, they went to a movie; Mike let Julie choose the film and didn't complain when he realized that it was a chick flick. And when Julie had tears in her eyes halfway through and snuggled closer to him for the remaining hour, it more than canceled out the scathing critical review he was preparing in his mind.

It was late by the time they made it back to her place, and again they kissed on the porch. It lasted a little longer this time. For Julie, that made it better; for Mike, being any better was neither possible nor necessary.

They spent Sunday at Julie's house. Mike mowed the lawn, trimmed the hedges, and helped her plant impatiens in the flower box. From there, he moved inside and began fixing those little things that tended to go undone in an older house-replacing the nails that had popped through a couple of boards in the hardwood floor, unsticking the locks, hanging the new light fixture she'd purchased for her bathroom months ago.

Julie watched him as he worked, noticing once again how good he looked in his jeans and how he was most confident when he was doing those types of things. When she kissed him once in the midst of hammering, the expression on his face told her exactly how he felt about her, and she realized that what had once been uncomfortable was now the response she craved.

When he left, she went inside and closed her eyes, leaning against the inside of the door. Wow, she thought, feeling exactly the way Mike had felt two nights before.

Twenty-one

After work the following Tuesday-an extra-busy day at the salon, since Andrea hadn't shown up and a couple of her clients had asked Julie to take care of them-Julie was pushing a cart slowly down the grocery store aisle, grabbing what she needed for dinner. Mike had promised to cook for her, and though she wasn't thrilled with the list he'd provided, she was willing to give it a shot. Despite his promises that it would be good, she couldn't imagine anything that included potato chips and sweet pickles would qualify as fine dining. But he seemed so excited about it, she didn't want to hurt his feelings.

She was just about finished before she realized she'd forgotten something. She was scanning the spice section, trying to remember whether he'd needed minced or spiced onion, when she felt the cart stop suddenly as it bumped into someone.

"Oh, excuse me," she said automatically. "I didn't see you. . . ."

"It's okay . . . I'm fine," he said. He turned around, and Julie's eyes widened.

"Richard?" she asked.

"Oh, hey, Julie," he answered, his voice soft. "How are you?"

"Fine," she said. "How are you doing?" Julie hadn't seen him since the morning he'd left, and he looked a little worse for the wear.

"Getting by," he said. "It's been hard. There's a lot I have to take care of. But you know how it goes."

"Yeah," she said. "I do know. How's the hand, by the way?"

"Better. Still bruised, but nothing to worry about." Then, as if squeezing his fingers closed brought back memories of that night, he looked down. "Listen, I want to apologize again for what I did last week. I had no right to get so angry."

"It's okay."

"And I also want to thank you again for listening to me. Not a lot of people would have done what you did."

"I didn't do much."

"Yeah," he insisted, "you did. I don't know what I would have done without you. I was in pretty dire straits that night."

She shrugged.

"Well," he said as if trying to figure out what to say next. He adjusted the grocery basket on his arm. "Please don't take it the wrong way, but you look terrific."

He said it as a friend would, without implications, and she smiled. "Thank you."

In the aisle, a woman was heading toward them, her cart full. Julie and Richard moved to the side to make room for her to pass.

"Listen, one more thing about the other night," Richard added. "I feel like I owe you something for being so understanding about the way I acted."

"You don't owe me anything."

"I'd still like to show my appreciation. Just as a way of saying thank you, I mean. Maybe I could take you out to dinner?"

She said nothing right away, and Richard, noting the hesitation, went on.

"Just dinner-nothing more than that. It won't even be an official date. I promise."

She looked off to the side, then back at him again. "I don't think that I can do that," she said. "I'm sorry."

"It's okay," he said, "I just thought I'd make the offer." He smiled. "So no hard feelings about the other night?"

"No hard feelings," she repeated.

"Okay." He took a small step away from her. "Well, I've got some things I still need to grab. See you around?"

"Sure."

"Good-bye," he said.

"Good-bye, Richard."

"So what exactly are these called again?" Julie asked.

Mike was standing over the stove in his apartment, the ground beef in the frying pan sizzling.

"Creole burgers."

"So it's Cajun?"

"Yep," he said. "Why do you think I asked for these two cans of soup? That's what gives it the authentic flavor."

Only Mike, she thought, would consider Campbell's chicken gumbo soup authentic Cajun cuisine.

When the meat was ready, he poured in the soup, then added a bit of ketchup and mustard before beginning to stir. Julie leaned against him to look at the concoction, an expression of distaste on her face.

"Remind me never to become a bachelor."

"Yeah, yeah. You joke now, but in a little while you'll feel like you're eating in heaven's dining room."

"I'm sure."

He bumped against her in feigned protest and felt her move with him.

"Did anyone ever tell you that you have an occasional tendency toward sarcasm?" he asked.

"Just a couple of times. But I think it was you that said it."

"I always knew I was a smart guy."

"So did I," she said, "but it's your cooking I'm worried about, not your brains."

Fifteen minutes later they were sitting at the table, Julie staring at her plate.

"This is a sloppy Joe," she announced.

"No," he said, picking up the sandwich, "this is a Creole burger. Sloppy Joes have a tomato flavor."

"While you prefer the distinctive Louisiana flavor?"

"Exactly. And don't forget to eat your pickle as you go. Sort of adds to the whole experience."

Julie glanced around the small apartment, stalling for time. Though the major pieces of furniture were passably tasteful, there were those touches that made it clear he lived in the style of single men everywhere. Like the gym shoes in the corner of the living room near his guitar. And the pile of unfolded clothes on his bed. And the giant-screen television, with a collection of imported beer bottles lining the top. And the dartboard mounted on the front door.

She leaned across the table, getting Mike's attention. "Love the ambiance you've created tonight. All we need is a candle and I'd feel like I'm in Paris."

"Really? I think I've got one," he said.

He rose from the table and opened a drawer; a moment later, a small flame flickered between them. He took his seat again.

"Better?"

"Just like a c

ollege dormitory."

"In Paris?"

"Mmm . . . maybe I was wrong. It's more like . . . Omaha."

He laughed. "So are you going to try it, or are you scared?"

"No. I'll try it. I'm just enjoying the anticipation."

He nodded toward her plate. "Good. Then you can figure out a nice way to apologize to the chef."

Julie picked up the sandwich and took a bite. Mike watched her as she seemed to study the flavor.

"Not bad," she said after swallowing.

"Not bad?"

She stared at the sandwich, a faint look of surprise on her face. "Actually it's kind of tasty."

"Told you," he said. "It's the chicken gumbo soup that does it."

She picked up the pickle and winked. "I'll try to remember that."

On Wednesday, it was Julie's turn to make dinner. She prepared sole stuffed with crabmeat and sauteed vegetables, accompanied by a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc. ("It's not Creole burgers, but I guess it'll do," Mike teased.) On Thursday they met for lunch in Emerald Isle. Afterward, while they were walking through the fine sand, Singer jabbed her in the leg with a stick he'd found. He dropped it in front of them, and when they ignored it, he grabbed the stick again, blocking their movement with his body. He looked up at Mike. C'mon, he seemed to be saying, you know the drill.

"I think he wants you to throw it," Julie remarked. "He doesn't think I throw it far enough."

"That's because you're a girl."

She elbowed him. "Watch it, buster. There's a feminist lurking somewhere in here that takes offense to comments like that."

"Feminists take offense to everything that men do better."

He pulled away before she could elbow him again and grabbed the stick. He pulled off his shoes and socks, then rolled up his pants legs. He jogged toward the water and waded in, high enough for the waves to roll in just below his knees. He held the stick out in front of him. Singer stared at it as if it were a fresh-cut steak.

"Ready?" Mike asked.

He cocked his arm and threw the stick as far as he could. Singer charged into the waves.

Julie took a seat on the sand, pulling her knees up and wrapping her arms around them. It was cool out; the sky was broken with patches of white, and the sun peeked through the clouds sporadically. Terns darted along the water's edge, looking for food, their heads bobbing like darning needles.

Singer came bounding back with the stick and shook the water from his coat, soaking Mike in the process. Mike grabbed the stick, then threw it again before turning Julie's way, his shirt plastered against his skin. From where she was sitting, she could see the muscles in his arms and the way his chest tapered to his hips. Nice, she thought, very nice.

"Let's do something tomorrow night, okay?" he called out.

Julie nodded. When Singer returned, Julie pulled her legs a little tighter and watched them start over. In the distance, a shrimp trawler eked its way over the water, long nets spread behind it. The lighthouse from Cape Lookout flashed in the distance. Julie felt the breeze on her face as she watched them, wondering why she'd ever been worried.

"Putt Putt?" she asked as they pulled into the lot the following evening. She was dressed in jeans, as was he; earlier in the day, he'd told her not to bother dressing up, and now she understood the reason. "This is what you want to do tonight?"

"Not just that. There's lots of stuff to do. They've got video games, too. And batting cages."

"Oooh," she said. "I'm thrilled."

"Ha! That's just because you don't think you can beat me," Mike said with a sniff.

"I can beat you. I'm like Tiger Woods when it comes to stuff like this."

"Prove it," he said.

She nodded, a gleam of challenge in her eyes. "You're on."

They got out of the truck, and made their way to the booth to get the clubs. "Pink and blue," he said, pointing out the color of the golf balls. "You and me. Mano a womano."

"Which one do you want?" she asked, playing innocent.

"Ha!" he snorted. "Keep it up and I'll show you no sympathy on the course."

"Ditto."

A couple of minutes later, they reached the first hole.

"Age before beauty," she offered, motioning to him.

Mike feigned a look of offense before putting the ball in place. The first hole required the ball to travel through a rotating windmill before it descended to a lower level where the hole was. Mike steadied himself over the ball.

"Watch and learn," he said.

"Just get on with it."

He hit the ball straight, and it passed through the opening in the windmill; after leaving the tube, it ended up less than a foot from the hole. "See? It's easy."

"Step aside. Let me show you how it's done."

She put her ball down and hit it. It bounced off the blades of the windmill and came back to her.

"Mmm . . . so sorry," Mike said, shaking his head. "Too bad."

"Just getting warmed up."

She took a little longer before pulling back and hitting the ball again. This time it made it, and when she looked to see where it would end up, she saw it rolling toward the hole before it vanished from sight.

"Nice shot," Mike conceded. "Lucky, though."

She poked him with the club. "That's all part of the plan."

In a darkened bedroom of the rented Victorian, Richard was sitting in bed, his back against the headboard. He'd pulled the drapes closed. The room was illuminated only by a small candle on the nightstand, and as he rolled a piece of wax between his fingers, he thought about Julie.

She had been nice enough at the grocery store, but he knew she'd regretted running into him. He shook his head, wondering why she'd tried to hide it. It was pointless, he thought. He knew exactly who she was. In some ways, he knew her better than she knew herself. He knew, for instance, that she was with Mike tonight and that she saw in him the comfort she'd once had and hoped to find again.

She was afraid of anything new, he realized, and he wished she could see that there was so much more for her out there, so much more for the both of them. Didn't she see that if she stayed here, Mike would drag her down? That her friends would ultimately hurt her? That's what happened when you let fear govern your decisions.

He had learned that from experience. He'd despised his father, as Julie had despised the men who'd moved in and out of her life. He hated his mother for her weakness, just as Julie hated her own mother's weakness. But Julie was trying to make peace with her past by trying to relive it. Fear was leading her to the illusion of comfort, yet in the end, it would remain an illusion. She didn't have to end up the way her mother had; she didn't have to lead the life her mother had. Her life could be anything she wanted it to be. As his was.

"Lucky shot!" Mike cried again. Halfway through the course, the score was tied, until Julie's latest shot, which ricocheted off the wall and dropped into the cup. She swaggered over to retrieve her ball.

"How come it's always luck when I make it and skill when you do it?" she demanded.

Mike was still staring at the path the ball had taken. "Because it is! There's no way you could have planned that!"

"You sound like you're getting nervous."

"I'm not getting nervous."

Mimicking his action earlier, she ran her fingernails over her chest and sniffed. "You should be. You'd hate to let a girl beat you."

"You won't beat me."

"So what's the score?"

He stuffed the card and pencil into his back pocket. "It doesn't matter. It's the score at the end that's important."

Mike stalked toward the next hole, Julie giggling behind him.

Richard slowed his breathing, concentrating on Julie's image. Even though she was confused right now, he knew she was different from other people. She was special, better, like him.

It was that secret knowledge of his uniqueness that had sustained him in one foster home after the next. Aside from a few articles of clothing, the only items he'd b

rought with him were the camera he'd stolen from one of his former neighbors and the box of photographs he'd taken.

The first people who took him in seemed nice enough, but for the most part, he ignored them. He came and went as he pleased, wanting nothing more than a place to sleep and food to eat. As in many foster homes, he was not the only child, and he shared a room with two older boys. It was these two boys who stole his camera two months after he'd moved in, selling it at a pawnshop in order to buy cigarettes.

When Richard found them, they were playing in the vacant lot next door. On the ground was a baseball bat, and he reached for it. They laughed at first, since they were both taller and heavier. In the end, however, they were rushed to the hospital in a pair of ambulances, their faces crushed beyond recognition. The foster care caseworker wanted to send Richard to a juvenile detention center. She'd come to the house later that day with the police, after his foster parents had reported him. Richard was handcuffed and driven to the station. There, he'd sat on a hard wooden chair across from a burly officer named Dugan in a small mirrored room.

Dugan, with his pockmarked cheeks and bulbous nose, had a way of rasping as he spoke. Leaning forward, he told Richard how badly he'd injured the boys and that he was going to spend the next several years locked away. But Richard hadn't been afraid, just as he hadn't been afraid when the police had come to question him and his mother about his father. He'd known this was coming. He looked down, then began to cry.

"I didn't want to do it," he said quietly. "But they took my camera, and I told them I would report it to the caseworker. They were going to kill me. I was scared. One of them attacked me-with a knife."

With that, Richard opened his jacket and Dugan saw the blood.

Richard was taken to the hospital; he'd been slashed across his lower stomach. The only reason the wound wasn't more serious, Richard claimed, was that he'd managed to twist free from their grasp at the last minute. Dugan found the knife on the warehouse roof, exactly where Richard said he'd seen one of the boys throw it.

The two boys, not Richard, were sent to the juvenile detention facility, despite their pleas that neither of them had ever touched the knife, let alone slashed Richard with it. But the man at the pawnshop said he'd bought the camera from them, and no one believed their protests. They both had records, after all.

Years later, Richard saw one of the boys in the neighborhood, walking on the opposite side of the road. He was a man by then, but when he saw Richard he froze; Richard simply smiled and kept on walking, remembering with disdain the cut he'd so easily inflicted upon himself.

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