“I don’t know. Maybe sailing, maybe something else. Whatever you want to do.”
She laughed. “Well, I did have big plans—my trip to Paris for a little shopping, a quick safari or two . . . but I guess I can rearrange things.”
“Then it’s a date.”
* * *
As the days passed, the image of the dream began to fade. Each time Garrett talked to Theresa, he found himself feeling a little more renewed. He also spoke to Kevin a couple of times, and his enthusiasm for Garrett’s presence in their lives helped him regain his footing as well. Even though the heat and humidity of August seemed to make time pass more slowly than usual, he kept himself as busy as he could, doing his best not to think about the complexities of his new situation.
Two weeks later—a few days before he was leaving for Boston—Garrett was cooking in the kitchen when the phone rang.
“Hiya, stranger,” she said. “Got a few minutes?”
“I always have a few minutes to talk when it comes to you.”
“I was just calling to find out what time your flight is coming in. You weren’t sure the last time we talked.”
“Hold on,” he said, rummaging through the kitchen drawer for his itinerary. “Here it is—I’ll be getting into Boston a few minutes after one.”
“That works out perfectly. I’ve got to drop Kevin off a few hours earlier, and it’ll give me time to get the apartment in shape.”
“Cleaning up for me?”
“You get the full treatment. I’m even going to dust.”
“I feel honored.”
“You should. Only you and my parents get that kind of attention.”
“Should I pack a pair of white gloves to make sure you’ve done a good job?”
“If you do, you won’t live to see the evening.”
he laughed and changed the subject. “I’m looking forward to seeing you again,” he said earnestly. “These last three weeks were a lot harder than the first two.”
“I know. I could hear it in your voice. You were really down for a few days, and . . . well, I was beginning to get worried about you.”
He wondered whether she suspected the reason for his melancholy. Clearing his mind, he went on. “I was, but I’m over it now. I’ve already packed my bags.”
“I hope you didn’t take up any space with unnecessary items.”
“Like what?”
“Like . . . I don’t know . . . pajamas.”
He laughed. “I don’t own any pajamas.”
“That’s good. Because even if you did, you wouldn’t need them.”
* * *
Three days later, Garrett Blake arrived in Boston.
After picking him up from the airport, Theresa showed him around the city. They had lunch at Faneuil Hall, watched the skullers gliding on the Charles River, and took a quick tour of the Harvard campus. As usual, they held hands most of the day, reveling in each other’s company.
More than once, Garrett found himself wondering why the last three weeks had been so difficult for him. He knew that part of his anxiety stemmed from the dream, but spending time with Theresa made the dream’s troubling feelings seem distant and insubstantial. Every time Theresa laughed or squeezed his hand, she reaffirmed the feelings he’d had when she was last in Wilmington, banishing the dark thoughts that plagued him in her absence.
when the day began to cool and the sun dipped below the trees, Theresa and Garrett stopped for some Mexican food to bring back to her apartment. Sitting on her living room floor in the glow of candlelight, Garrett looked around the room.
“You have a nice place,” he said, forking up some beans with a tortilla chip. “For some reason, I thought it would be smaller than it is. It’s bigger than my house.”
“Only by a little, but thanks. It works for us. It’s real convenient to everything.”
“Like restaurants?”
“Exactly. I wasn’t kidding when I told you I didn’t like to cook. I’m not exactly Martha Stewart.”
“Who?”
“Never mind,” she said.
Outside her apartment, the sound of traffic was clearly audible. A car screeched on the street below, a horn blared, and all at once the air was filled with noise as other cars joined in the chorus.
“Is it always this quiet?” he asked.
She nodded toward the windows. “Friday and Saturday nights are the worst—usually it’s not so bad. But you get used to it if you live here long enough.”
The sounds of city living continued. A siren blared in the distance, growing steadily louder as it approached.
“Would you like to put on some music?” Garrett asked.
“Sure. What kind do you like?”
“I like both kinds,” he said, pausing dramatically. “Country and western.”
She laughed. “I don’t have anything like that here.”
He shook his head, enjoying his own joke. “I was kidding, anyway. it’s an old line. not too funny, but I’ve been waiting for my chance to say it for years.”
“You must have watched a lot of Hee-Haw as a kid.”
Now it was his turn to laugh.
“Back to my original question—what kind of music do you like?” she persisted.
“Anything you have is fine.”
“How about some jazz?”
“Sounds good.”
Theresa got up and chose something she thought he might like and slipped it into the CD player. In a few moments the music started, just as the traffic congestion outside seemed to clear.
“So what do you think of Boston so far?” she asked, reclaiming her seat.
“I like it. For a big city, it’s not too bad. It doesn’t seem as impersonal as I thought it would be, and it’s cleaner, too. I guess I pictured it differently. You know—crowds, asphalt, tall buildings, not a tree in sight, and muggers on every corner. But it’s not like that at all.”
She smiled. “It is nice, isn’t it? I mean, it’s not beachfront, but it has its own appeal. Especially if you consider what the city has to offer. You could go to the symphony, or to museums, or just stroll around in the Commons. There’s something for everyone here—they even have a sailing club.”
“I can see why you like it here,” he said, wondering why it sounded as if she were selling the place.
“I do. And Kevin likes it, too.”
He changed the subject: “You said he’s at soccer camp?”
She nodded. “Yeah. He’s trying out for an all-star team for twelve and under. i don’t know if he’ll make it, but he thinks he has a pretty good shot. Last year, he made the final cut as an eleven-year-old.”
“It sounds like he’s good.”
“He is,” she said with a nod. She pushed their now empty plates to the side and moved closer. “But enough about Kevin,” she said softly. “We don’t always have to talk about him. We can talk about other things, you know.”
“Like what?”
She kissed his neck. “Like what I want to do with you now that I have you all to myself.”
“Are you sure you just want to talk about it?”
“You’re right,” she whispered. “Who wants to talk at a time like this?”
* * *
The next day, Theresa again took Garrett on a tour of Boston, spending most of the morning in the Italian neighborhoods of the North End, wandering the narrow, twisting streets and stopping for the occasional cannoli and coffee. Though Garrett knew she wrote columns for the paper, he didn’t know exactly what else her job entailed. He asked her about it as they made their way leisurely through the city.
“Can’t you write a column from your home?”
“In time, I suppose I can. But right now, it’s not possible.”
“Why not?”
“Well, it’s not in my contract, for starters. Besides, I have to do a lot more than sit at my computer and write. Often, I have to interview people, so there’s time involved in that—sometimes even a little travel. Plus, there’s all the research I have to do, especially when I write about medical or psychological issues, and when i’m in the office, i have access to a lot more sources. And then there’s the fact that I need a place where I can be reached. A lot of the stuff I do is human interest, and I get calls from people all day long. If I worked out of my home, I know a lot of people would call in the evenings when I’m spending time with Kevin, and I’m not willing to give up my time with him.”