Forsaking All Others (15 page)

First came stunned, hurt silence, then carefully controlled words. “Nothing—nothing at all. I’ve been
talking to the wrong girl all night long. And I mean
girl!
Why don’t you grow up, Allison, and stop blaming the rest of the world for one man’s transgressions? Then maybe you’ll find somebody
worthy
of your lofty attention!”

Without saying good-bye, Rick Lang hung up.

T
HE
days and weeks that followed were filled with the deepest despair Allison had ever known, deeper than that she’d suffered when Jason deserted her, for then she’d been fortified by justifiable anger. Now she had no blame to lay on Rick Lang and thereby assuage her own shortcomings.

Rick had done nothing to earn her callous rejection—nothing. Her own insecurity had caused her to treat him so cruelly. A hundred times a day she considered calling him, apologizing, telling him it wasn’t his fault, that he was innocent of everything she had accused him of. But she was utterly ashamed of how she’d acted. And now, too, she felt unworthy of him.

The vision of Rick filled her thoughts as the days stretched into weeks. In her memories she no longer searched for flaws, for he possessed none, none with which he had ever sought to hurt her, to dominate her, even to bolster his own ego. Those were crutches Jason had used—Jason, not Rick. He had entered the relationship honestly; it was she who had hidden truths from
him and disguised her fears behind a façade of wariness and distrust.

Ah, what a sorry human being she was. She deserved the hurt and the sense of loss she now suffered as the dreary days of February paraded past and she heard nothing from Rick Lang.

The photographs of their day at the Winterfest brought painful memories of what she had so carelessly cast aside. Leafing through them one day, she recalled a time she now longed for, a man she now longed for, who had treated her decently, honorably. In a spate of self-disgust she threw the pictures across her desk and lowered her head to her arms to cry again.

She was so tired of crying.

When she blew her nose and dried her eyes, she felt better. Resting her chin on a fist on the desktop, she scanned again the scattered scenes with their bright colors and bittersweet memories.

Call him, call him, a lonely voice cried.

He’ll have nothing to say—you’ve hurt him too badly.

Apologize, came the taunting, haunting voice.

After the way you treated him? You have no right to call him.

Her head came up off her fist, and she collected the photos, sniffling still, and rubbed a wrist under her eyes and laid the collection in a row. Studying them in a series, she realized they were remarkably well-done,
giving an overall effect of vibrant Minnesotans hard at play in the midst of an icy winter’s day.

On a sudden impulse she dashed off a cover letter and jammed them into an envelope along with it, and put them in the mail to
Mpls./St. Paul
magazine.

To Allison’s amazement, she received a call three days later from a man who wanted to buy the series for their April issue.

But the joy she would otherwise have basked in was dulled by the fact that she couldn’t share it with Rick, who had been so much a part of that day. When Allison hung up the phone, she stood for long minutes, hands hugging her thin hips through tight jeans pockets as she stared at the phone.

Again she had the sudden urge to call him and tell him the news. But once more she felt guilty and undeserving and decided against it.

The Hasselblad was still here. She worked with it daily, realizing she must return it, afraid to call and tell him he could either come and get it or she would take it to his place.

On the first day of March she returned home to find an envelope with strange handwriting in her mailbox. Racing up the stairs, she flung off her cap and scarf, her heart warming, warning—it’s from him! It’s from him!

She curled her feet beneath her on the sofa, studying the writing. The envelope was pink. She began to rip it
open, then suddenly changed her mind, wanting to keep it flawless and neat if it truly were from him. She found a knife in the kitchen and slit the envelope open carefully.

Back on the sofa she slipped the greeting card slowly from its holder. There came into view a hand-painted card done in pastel watercolors of a single stalk of forget-me-nots forcing their way up between an old brick wall and a weathered gnarl of driftwood around which wild grasses waved in dappled shadow.

Even before she opened it, Allison’s eyes had filled with tears. She ran her fingertips over the rough texture of the watercolor paper, realizing it was the first of his work she’d seen.

A wildlife artist, he’d said, but she’d never asked once to see his work, never displayed an interest in it at all. Yet she’d heartlessly accused
him
of egoism! She was the egotist, so wrapped up in her own career she’d never bothered to ask about his.

Considering the sensitivity that radiated from the simple drawing, she realized an enormous truth—Rick Lang didn’t give a damn about his physical appearance and did not feed off it, because it was wholly secondary to what was most important in his life—his art.

She opened the folded sheet. His writing, done with black ink and calligraphy pen, slanted across the page:
I haven’t forgotten. Rick
.

Allison clamped a hand over her mouth, swallowing repeatedly at the sudden surge of emotion that welled up in her throat. His face came back, beguiling, entreating.

No, Rick, I haven’t forgotten either, but I’m so ashamed, how can I face you again?

She sat there for a long time with her legs drawn up tightly against her chest, thinking of him, remembering, reliving all the enjoyable hours spent with him, their teasing and laughter, the disastrous omelette, their exuberant forays into the winter days, the night they’d shared that wonderful sense of oneness after the studio session, and, of course, the night he’d made love to her.

His words came back clearly. “I’m still one of those guys who wants to do the pursuing.” She now wanted so badly to call him, but the memory of those words stopped her.

She glanced at the telephone and decided that if he wanted to see her again, he’d call.

I
N
mid-March she sent him a brief note telling him she’d leave the Hasselblad at the North Star Modeling Agency, and he could pick it up there. She debated for a long time before adding, “I loved your card. You’re gifted with a paintbrush.” Debating again about how to sign it, she finally decided on, “Yours, A.”

T
HE
last two weeks of March dragged past. The buds on the trees along Nicollet Mall were bursting with new life, ready to sprout greenery into the heart of downtown Minneapolis, which was vibrant with expectancy now that spring was just around the corner. In downtown bank plazas noontime fashion shows offered spring garments in an array of bright colors—short sleeved and breezy in anticipation of the balmy season ahead.

Allison bought a chic suit of pale yellow linen to take home to Watertown for Easter, which fell in mid-April. But the new suit did little to lift her spirits as day after day she hoped to find another letter in her mailbox from Rick. But none came.

She broke down in early April and tried calling him for three days in a row, but got no answer.

Carefully nonchalant, she went to North Star’s office one day to ask Mattie if Rick Lang had come by to pick up his camera.

“Sure did,” Mattie answered. “Said he was happy to have it back because he was going home, wherever that is, to get some spring shots for his files.”

Depressed at the idea of his being miles away, in a town where she’d never been, Allison submerged herself in work, trying to put him out of her mind.

Hathaway Books called, saying they loved the cover
concept and photography she’d done and offering her a contract to do two more. It should have elated Allison, but while she was happy, that ebullient feeling she’d expected to experience at a time like this was curiously absent.

I
N
mid-April another envelope bearing Rick’s writing showed up in the mail—a hastily scrawled pencil sketch of a fawn standing beneath a leafless tree. Inside he’d written, “I’ve been out of town, reevaluating. Just got back and saw the spread in
Mpls./St. Paul.
Congratulations! You, too, are gifted . . . with my Hasselblad. Yours, Rick.”

The spirits that had lain unlifted by either the new spring suit or the two-book contract offer were buoyed to the heights by his simple message.

Again she considered calling him, but studied the word “reevaluating” and decided it was best to leave the pursuing to him, if he ever decided to see her again.

Easter came and at the last minute before leaving town on Good Friday, Allison picked up an Easter card at the drugstore and addressed it to him, writing beneath the printed message, “I, too, am reevaluating. Yours, Allison.”

Spending two days at home this time, Allison
remembered Rick’s analysis of her parents’ motives and found herself less critical of them, enjoying her weekend immensely.

The winter wheat was already sprouting in the limitless fields around the farmhouse, and she took time for a long walk through them, evaluating not only herself but also Rick, their relationship, and the far too great importance she had put on the treatment given her by Jason Ederlie.

What was she afraid of?

The answer, she found now, was nothing! She wasn’t afraid; she was eager. She wanted the chance to see Rick Lang again, to apologize, to laugh with him, make love with him if he would have her, and to prove that she was willing to judge him for himself alone, not by measuring him against a man who, during the past few months, had become only a vague recollection and whose memory had almost ceased to bring the hurt and despondency it once had.

N
O
word came again until the first of May. A long, narrow, hand-painted card bearing a basket of mayflowers with a ribbon tied to its handle, streamers flying breezily in the wind.

Inside it said, “There’s an old May Day tradition that if a girl likes a boy, she leaves a May basket on his step,
rings his doorbell, then runs, in the hopes that he’ll catch her and kiss her. I’m not sure if boys are allowed to do the same thing, but . . . Love, Rick.”

Allison’s cheeks grew as pink as the May blossoms on his painting, and a glorious smile lit her face. She felt as if a bouquet of flowers had burst to profusion within her very heart. Breathing became suddenly difficult, and she turned, studying the sofa in her bright living room where late afternoon sun now streamed through the windows of the sun porch, whose French doors were opened.

She remembered Rick here in his many poses and knew beyond a doubt that he would be here again . . . soon.

She would invite him over for supper, she thought, immediately tossing the idea out as too forward. Not here, not in this place where memories of the past might come to threaten. They needed neutral territory on which to meet and assess the changes they were sure to find in each other.

Unsure of what his message meant, she was still reluctant to be the one to call him. Rick Lang, pursuer, she thought with a smile.

She waited another day, and in the mail at the studio there arrived the answer to her quandary—the announcement of a two-day symposium and workshop at University of Wisconsin-Madison, at which the keynote speaker would be Roberto Finelli, a renowned
instructor of photography from Brooks Institute in Santa Barbara.

Subject: Photographing People for Profit

Requirements: 35mm camera, colored film, and a model of your choice

Dates: May 19–20

Registration Fee: $160.00

Meals: Available at the college cafeteria at student rates

Lodging: Not arranged for, hotels and motels available in vicinity near the campus

Odd how insignificant her lifetime dream of meeting Finelli suddenly seemed when offered beside the opportunity of seeing Rick Lang again, of working with him and in the process rectifying the mistake she’d made with him.

The hands of the clock seemed to creep by so slowly that at one point Allison actually called for correct time, verifying that it was her own eagerness and not some electrical malfunction that made the hours move so slowly. She could have called Rick from the studio, but for some reason she wanted to be at home when she did.

But when five o’clock finally arrived and Allison got home, she dawdled unnecessarily through a tuna salad sandwich, reaching for the phone three times while the
heartbeats in her throat threatened to choke her. Each time she pulled back the sweating hand, wiping it on her thigh, turning around to pace the living room and work up her courage.

He wouldn’t be home, she thought frantically. Or he might be home but have somebody else with him and not be able to talk. Or maybe he would be able to talk but would refuse—then what?

Chicken, Allison?

Damn right, I’m chicken!

Then don’t call—spend the rest of your life wishing you had!

Oh shut up, I’ll do it when I’m good and ready!