On a Night Like This (5 page)

And then the phone picked up.

“I remember you,” she said.

Chapter Three

B
lair remembered his beauty. There weren’t many beautiful boys in high school. Most grew in lumpy solids, big around the top or bottom, unformed in the face. But she remembered Luke as tall and lanky; he moved with remarkable grace. He had high cheekbones and the same shoulder-length hair that most of the boys wore, but his was wheat blond and as thick as a girl’s. She remembered green eyes.

“I’m surprised,” he said now, on the phone, arriving in her cottage by disconnect—a voice, a memory, a tug to the past just as she was dreaming about dying. She was swimming, underwater, a common dream for her, but when she wanted air, she found herself sinking deeper, water pressing down on her from above, as heavy as hands. She answered the phone to escape the dream.
Where the hell is Amanda at ten-thirty at night?

“Why?” she asked.

“I don’t think we ever spoke,” he said.

“We did,” she told him, sitting up in bed now, her head clear of the thick waters in her dream. “You asked me once if I was wearing underwear. You were drunk. We were at a party at Chris Martin’s house.”

“You didn’t go to parties,” he said.

“I went to that one.”

“What did you say?”

“I told you I never wore underwear.”

“Under those gauzy skirts,” he said, and she could tell he was smiling.

“Now I’m surprised you remember,” she said.

And then they were quiet for a moment and she liked that—a man who could pause, take a breath.

“Why are you calling?” she finally said.

“You’re lost,” he said, and then he laughed. “Or so Reese Academy thinks. I offered to find you.”

“Last time they called me for a donation, I told them I was moving to Alaska with no forwarding address,” Blair told him. “Why are you doing this?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “I mean, I know why they want you found. Contributions, loyalty, that sort of thing.”

“Forget it.”

“I’m not asking for that.”

“What are you asking for?”

“I don’t know. I can’t go to sleep. And my dog wants a walk. Where do you live?”

“Nowhere near you.”

“How do you know?”

“Because you’re probably rich. I’m not.”

“I bet you’re doing a hell of a lot better than I’m doing right now,” he said. Blair smiled at that.

“I don’t think so, Luke Bellingham.” She started to hang up and then heard him speaking again.

“You’ve never met Sweetpea,” he said.

“The dog.”

“Not just any dog.”

“I’m sure.”

“You can ignore me. Just take Sweetpea for a walk. She’s been alone with me in the woods for months. She could use a fresh face.”

“And what would you do?”

“Walk next to you.”

“Now?”

“I might leave tomorrow.”

“Back to the woods, I assume.”

“This is Sweetpea’s last chance.”

“Thirty-five fifty-eight Lucas Street. In the Haight. I’m in the cottage in back. Don’t come in. I’ll meet you out in front.”

Then she hung up.

“Damn,” she said to herself. She crawled out of bed and threw a sweatshirt over her nightgown. She found a pair of jeans on the floor and pulled them on. The nightgown was too long to tuck in so it hung over the pants. “Gauzy skirts,” she muttered, suddenly furious with herself. She had avoided all the Luke Bellinghams for four torturous years in high school. They were smooth and slick, while she was caught in the muddled mess of adolescence. They were trust fund babies; she was a fisherman’s daughter. They knew the rules; she was making it all up as she went along. Why had she answered the goddamn phone? If she hadn’t, she would have been dead by now, drowned by watery hands.

The door flew open and Amanda stood there, a wild smile on her face.

“I got a raise,” she said. She twirled around in the doorway, then stopped and peered at her mother, her head cocked sideways.

“You’re looking very attractive,” she said.

Blair looked down at her ridiculous outfit and shrugged.

“I’m going to walk some guy’s dog.”

“Who? What? Now?”

“Don’t ask,” Blair said, giving her daughter a peck on the cheek. “Congrats on the raise. You were working?”

“All night,” Amanda said.

“It’s Sunday?” Blair asked. “I was sleeping. I’m completely jumbled.”

“Maybe you dreamed about someone’s dog?” Amanda suggested.

Blair walked into the bathroom connecting the two tiny pine-walled bedrooms. Even the bathroom was miniature, painted rose, the only hanging lamp covered with a plum-colored Japanese lantern. She brushed her teeth and eyed her pink self in the mirror. Bedhead. She ruffled her hair, but she had fallen asleep with it wet and there was nothing she could do about it now.
Who cares what I look like,
she thought, and threw the toothbrush at the mirror.

“What’s wrong with you?” Amanda asked, watching her from the doorway.

Blair walked up to her daughter and put her arms around her. “I love you, my sweet girl.”

Amanda pulled back a little and peered at her mom. “Is this dog-walking thing something permanent? Like you walk this dog and never come back?”

“You never know,” Blair told her, grabbing the hat from Amanda’s head—a purple derby—and pulling it over her own mess of a head. She walked to the door and then looked back.

“I’ll remember you fondly,” Amanda offered.

Blair curtsied, holding her nightgown out away from her jeans.

“The dog might be scared,” Amanda said.

Blair blew a kiss and left the cottage, closing the door behind her.

Sure enough, a dog sat waiting at the end of the path. She looked around—not a Bellingham in sight. She knelt down and the big dog loped on up to her, sniffed around.
Good, it’s not a licking dog,
she thought. She checked the dog tag:
Sweetpea.
Handsome in a mutty sort of way. Soulful eyes. Part shepherd, part something she couldn’t identify. Lots of sweet in this Sweetpea. And the softest black-brown coat she had ever felt.

She looked around, eyeing the bushes, the garbage can, the side of the garage. “Where is he, girl?” she whispered.

Sweetpea nuzzled closer.

“Lonely, are you? Hmm. What a concept.” Blair stood, looked around once more, called out: “You can come out now, Bellingham. I’ll walk your damn dog.”

He stepped forward, out of some darkness, and stood before her. Older, craggier, shorter hair, some mess of a beard on his face. Were those the same soulful eyes?

“Meet Sweetpea,” he said, his voice almost a whisper.

“We met,” she said. “Now we walk.”

He stepped aside and she passed him, noticing that he was even taller, not just a boy who grew sooner and better than all the other boys, but a boy who kept growing.

He walked a half step behind her.

“You had blond hair,” he said.

“No, I didn’t.”

“You were tall,” he said.

“No, I wasn’t.”

“You look wonderful,” he said.

She stopped and he almost bumped into her. Sweetpea knew to pause at her side.

“OK,” she said, almost looking at him. “That’s enough of then. This is now.”

“I’m talking about now.”

“How do you put up with him?” she asked Sweetpea, and they started walking again, and when they turned the corner, the streets were finally filled with people. Blair realized she was nervous. Was this a date? She didn’t do dates. She occasionally met a guy in a bar, went back to his place for a bout of lovemaking. More often she stayed home on her nights off, hanging out with Amanda. There was something odd about a boy calling, inviting her for a walk. It seemed downright adolescent.

They walked, Blair holding Sweetpea’ s leash, the dog brushing gently against her leg. Luke was there, somewhere, a half beat off, and whenever she looked back to see if they had lost him, he was always still there, and he looked ridiculously pleased with himself or her or his dog or something she couldn’t figure out.

“Would you like a drink?” he asked, leaning toward her as they walked.

“I’m just walking the dog,” she told him.

“Maybe the dog would like a drink,” he said.

She had been walking quickly, as if trying to get somewhere. Sweetpea was panting.

“Your dog’s out of shape,” she said.

“It’s the people,” Luke said. “They’re scaring us.”

She stopped again, midsidewalk, and looked around. This was her neighborhood. The Haight. There were groups of people gathered at doorsteps, in front of bars, at street corners. They were shabby and tired and drugged. Most were twenty or younger—the age of Luke and Blair way back when. A kid—was it a boy or a girl—was it young or old—asked them for money and Luke pulled coins out of his pocket, pressed them into the person’s palm.

“There’s a café on the corner. We can get a table outside,” Blair said. She rubbed Sweetpea’s ear and the dog seemed happier. “You’ve been in the woods too long,” she muttered.

They followed her to the café and she took a table on the sidewalk, under the striped awning. Sweetpea immediately squeezed under the table and sat by her feet. Blair liked the feeling of the dog’s soft fur against her ankles.

Luke sat across from her.

“You’re staring at me,” Blair said. “Stop that.”

“I was sure I remembered you. You’re completely different.”

“You didn’t remember me. You made me up. Invented me out of thin air.”

“No,” he insisted, leaning toward her. “I remember those gauzy skirts. And the way you smelled. Like fire.”

“That’s all,” she said. “It was all gauze and incense. Nothing of substance.”

“I think you’re wrong,” Luke said.

The waiter saved them, offering menus and eyeing Luke. Blair was used to being ignored by most of the men in San Francisco, who only needed a woman to complain to about the men they loved. Luke didn’t even notice the waiter’s appreciative stare.

“Can we get a bowl of water for the dog?” Blair asked, but there was no dog the waiter could see. “Under the table. Believe me,” she added.

“And two beers?” Luke asked, watching Blair, who nodded.

“On a night like this, there’s nothing better than beer,” she said when the waiter reluctantly pulled himself away from the Luke show.

“What’s a night like this?” Luke asked, leaning forward.

“Hot,” she said. “It’s a hot night.”

He smiled.

“I’m talking about the temperature,” she said.

“Me too,” he offered, still smiling.

“On a night like this, where would you normally be?” she asked. The dog snuggled closer and she tucked her feet under the soft fur.

“I’ve never had a night like this before,” he told her.

Blair took her hat off and ruffled her hair. Luke looked enormously pleased.

“It’s my daughter’s hat,” she explained, placing it on the table between them.

“You have a daughter,” he said.

“She’s sixteen.”

“My God.”

“We are old enough, you know.”

“I know. I was doing other things.”

“What things?”

“Writing screenplays.”

“I never go to the movies,” she told him.

“Good,” he said.

“So why do you write films if you don’t think it’s worth doing?”

“I guess I’m trying to make it something worth doing. Or I used to. I don’t do that anymore. I don’t do much of anything anymore.”

“What do you do that’s not much of anything?”

“Three months ago, I changed everything I knew about my life,” Luke said, sighing deeply. He leaned toward her, his elbows on the table. “I moved to a cabin in the woods. Alone. I don’t talk to anyone for days at a time; I don’t write a word. I undid my life.” He paused as if surprised by what he had said. “You know what happened?” he asked Blair quite seriously, as if he were thinking this through for the first time. “Now I don’t know what my life is. Who I am.”

He looked at her, wide-eyed, and then he leaned back in his chair and offered an embarrassed smile. “I’m talking too much. I’m not much of a talker. I’ve been inside my own head for too long.”

“It’s OK,” she said. Luke Bellingham? This was nothing like what she would have imagined. “What do you do all day?” she asked.

“I read. I walk in the woods. I build furniture.”

“Sounds like a lot to me.”

“But no one else knows. It’s like that old question. If a tree falls in the forest and no one hears it, does it make a sound? I’m in the forest. No one sees what I do. No one buys it. No one throws openings for me.”

“Lucky you.”

Luke leaned back, taking a deep breath.

“I haven’t felt good in a long time. It’s nice to sit here with you.”

She looked at him, squinting her eyes as if to see him more clearly. Again he was serious.

“Thank you,” she said, ridiculously.
Thank you?
She felt confused, as if she were in one of his movies and no one had given her the script.

“On a night like this, I could fall in love.”

“Don’t bother,” Blair said. “I’m dying.”

She immediately regretted it, cursed herself for ruining a good time. When was the last time she had a good time with a handsome, straight man? She looked down at the table, thought of saying, “I’m only kidding. I like you; let’s start over.” And she thought, for a terrifying moment, of dying. She imagined the black sea pulling her down—not a nightmare, but something very real. She heard the words as Luke Bellingham might hear them and felt her pulse pound in her head.

The waiter arrived. Blair looked up, though she knew her face was flushed, her hands on the table now trembling. The waiter carried a large mixing bowl and ceremoniously filled it with water from a pitcher. He kept eyeing Luke, hoping to charm him. But Luke watched Blair. The waiter offered the bowl to Blair, as if she were the dog.

“Thanks,” Blair said, her voice weak. She placed the water at her feet and felt Sweetpea shuffle into drinking position, then heard the sloppy sounds of her tongue lapping up the cold water.

“I’ll be right back with the beer,” the waiter told Luke.

“We’d appreciate that,” Blair told him.

When the waiter left, Blair finally looked at Luke. His face was dark, his mouth twisted as if searching for words he couldn’t find.