Tony. Not now. Not with Sam back in his life and “What was I thinking?” the phrase uppermost in his mind.
After a moment he straightened himself up and said, “Hey, I’m not proud of it, okay? She was there and Sam wasn’t, and after a while I convinced myself what I felt for Karen was love, and that made it all right, somehow. It was a case of somebody being in the right place at the right time.” He tilted his head, considering that. “Or, from her point of view, maybe the wrong place at the right time…. Anyway. So—” he shrugged, drank beer, burped gently and waved his glass in a c’est la vie gesture “—I got married. End of story. Or anyway, you know the rest.”
“Uh-uh.” Tony’s head movements had changed direction. “Not so fast. What about Samantha? How’d she take it, you going and getting married on her like that?”
Cory gave him a sideways look. He was feeling defensive again. “Come on. It wasn’t like that. Not like I sent her a Dear John—or Jane—letter, if that’s what you’re thinking. We’d already agreed it was time to cut each other loose…go our separate ways. I sure as hell didn’t need her…her permission.”
Tony said, “Humph,” in a thoughtful way, then narrowed his eyes. “Who called it off? You break up with her, or she break up with you?”
“What difference does it make?” Cory said, squirming a little.
“Helluva difference. The dumpee always carries a bigger grudge than the dumper. It’s kind of a natural law.”
“Look, it wasn’t like that, okay? Anyway, I don’t know if I even remember.”
Oh, but he did, though. He probably remembered every moment of that last night together, every word spoken. The things he’d said to her—gently, he’d thought at the time. Calmly. Rationally. Explaining to her that he wasn’t getting any younger, and…oh, all the other things he’d just told Tony, and how patient he’d been, waiting for her all through college and flight school, and as much as he loved her and always would, how long did she expect him to wait for her to grow up?
Oh, boy. He’d realized the moment those words were out of his mouth they might not have been the best choice. Plus, no matter how gently he’d phrased it, what he’d done was force her to make a choice between him and the career she loved, and Sam never had taken well to ultimatums. He remembered, could feel it still, the sick, sinking feeling in his stomach when he saw her eyes harden to cold, dark fury. He felt chilled even now, remembering the implacability in her voice as she’d replied.
“Then don’t,” she says. “Don’t wait for me anymore.”
Just that; Sam never has been a great one for words.
As I watch her walk away from me down a rain-slicked Georgetown street, part of me—a long-buried, almost-forgotten part—is howling in pain and anguish like an abandoned child, all set to hurl myself after her and beg her to forgive me, forget everything I’ve said, that I will wait for her forever if that’s what it takes to keep her in my life.
But another part of me, the adult part that has governed me since I was nine years old, is already deadened to the pain…growing numb with acceptance that this is for the best. And already growing used to the idea that the woman I’ve considered the love of my life for so long, I must henceforth remember as the one who got away….
“Uh-oh,” Tony said. “Speak of the devil. Uh…not that I think she’s…well, you know what I mean. Look who just walked in.” He hauled his beer close and subsided, looking vaguely ashamed, while Cory shot a quick guilty look toward the bar’s entrance.
In keeping with the hotel’s “tropical hideaway” theme—which meant many of the guest rooms, including his, were on stilts, right at the water’s edge—the bar’s ambiance was lush and exotic. Reminded Cory of the old Tiki Room at Disneyland, which he recalled visiting once during his college days. Here, though, the plants and flowers were real, and the sounds of trickling water came from miniature waterfalls that cascaded invisibly through the greenery. Instead of the clacking of animated birds, the background music emanating from hidden speakers was muted, exotic and unfamiliar.
The entrance was a small elevated landing flanked by stands of bamboo that leaned inward toward each other to form a doorway arch, illuminated by a soft mellow spotlight. It was like a small stage, and dead in the middle of it stood Sam, looking as though she belonged there, her head held high in that almost arrogant way she had, her short blond hair shining like sunshine, spiked and curling slightly with the damp.
His heart slammed against his ribs, but all he said was, “I see her.”
No cargo pants and baseball cap tonight. She wore a wrap skirt in tropical splashes of orange and peach and red that hit her a couple of inches above the knee and set off the soft golden tones of her skin, and a yellow knit tank top that clung to her small firm breasts and slender waist like the hide of an exotic animal. She looked confident and at ease, there in the light, her long, naturally lean body relaxed, but seeming to vibrate with strength and energy held in reserve.
“So does every male in the room—every one that’s got a pulse,” Tony muttered out of the side of his mouth. “Man, I only wanna know one thing. How in the hell’d you ever let a woman like that get away?”
Cory winced. The question was too close to what he’d been thinking to himself a moment ago. He said in a voice gone unexpectedly guttural, “Like I said, I tried my best. She had other ideas.” He took a swallow of beer that seared his throat.
“Think she’s looking for us? Hey—she’s looking this way.”
“No—don’t—” But it was too late. Tony had already lifted his beer glass and was gesturing with it in a welcoming way.
“Hey—Captain—over here.”
With his pulse a hollow tom-tom beat in his belly, Cory watched Sam give Tony a little smile and a nod, pause briefly to speak to the white-jacketed host who had rushed over to greet her, then make her way unhurriedly through the maze of rattan tables.
As she walked among the tables, it occurred to Sam that her legs felt rather odd. Not weak—she’d never say weak—but…as though they weren’t all that well strung together, put it that way.
Oh, Lord, it’s still there. All these years later, and it’s as bad as ever. Like one of those tropical diseases, she thought, that pop out every now and then even when you think you’re over it. Like malaria.
She tried hard to keep her eyes on the bald guy, the photographer—Tony, that’s it. She kept her eyes and her smile focused on him and tried not to look at Cory, but how could she help but see him sitting there? Sort of leaning back in his chair, relaxed as always, wearing a loose-fitting long-sleeved shirt in some kind of coarse, rugged material softened and faded by long wear and many washings.
He’d be watching her, she knew, with his lips slightly curved, eyes dark and intent behind the rimless glasses he always wore. It was the attitude that made him such a successful reporter, that way he had of making a person feel they were the most fascinating and important person in the world, that nothing mattered more than what they had to tell him.
It would only occur to them a long time afterward that they’d spilled their guts to him, told him their deepest, darkest secrets…and that they knew absolutely nothing about him.
“Hey,” she said by way of a greeting, in the manner of the deep South in which
