Darren turned, facing the only woman he’d ever loved. High school sweethearts they had been. Married right after graduation against everyone’s advice. He went to work for the post office, she for a bank. Then two children, a house that was never big enough but was always theirs. They’d had a lot of sun in their lives, and some rain. Some real rain of late. But they had come through that together… “I love you. You know that.”
“Really?” Felicia smiled and kissed him. “I love you, too.” He smiled back, but it wasn’t a whole expression. She knew what was missing. “Go get a bite and relax.”
“Okay.” Darren kissed her on the forehead and left the room, the hotel door clicking loudly as its twin latches closed.
Anne popped back in at the sound. “Where’s Darren?”
“He needed a minute to…” Felicia bit her lower lip to stop the tears from coming. It worked. “It’s Moises. Being here is hard for Darren because he knows Moises is just up the road a ways.”
“That was weeks ago, Felicia,” Anne reminded her.
“I know. Convince Superdad of that.”
You couldn’t talk the worry out of a parent. Not in therapy, and definitely not three thousand miles from the couch.
But maybe you could ease the parent’s fears. Maybe…
“I have an idea, Felicia. Maybe there’s some peace of mind for Darren.” Anne got the mischievous look on her face that only one person knew. “Did Darren bring that postcard from Moises?”
“I have it,” Felicia said. She retrieved it from her bag and gave it to Anne. Then she got that look, too. “You’re seeing him tonight?”
“For a late dinner.” She looked at her watch and added the three hours she’d forgotten to on the plane. “A late, late dinner.”
“Do you think he can find something? From that?”
“We’ll see.”
So it hadn’t been the most romantic of reunions. The restaurant, on the ground floor of the hotel Art had called home for several weeks, was hardly five-star, but it did have a very important redeeming quality: it was open. The late hour and the holiday had combined to limit their dining choices, but they were making the best of it, he with an almost decent eggplant parmesan, she with an average scampi. But together they were. That was what counted.
Anne rolled the last pinkish-orange shrimp in its buttery sauce and bit it off up to the tail. Across the small round table she watched Art lay his fork on the half-finished plate. “Not hungry?”
He leaned a bit closer, over the plate, and spoke softly, his eyes glancing at the food: “Not for this.”
Anne smiled and pushed her plate aside. The shrimp were gone, but the vegetable medley had only warranted a taste. She slid a hand across the table and laid it on his. “Tired?”
He nodded.
“I miss you,” Anne said as she rubbed the back of his hand. His eyes danced between hers and countless other things in sight. Something was on his mind. Something she was pretty certain of. “I wish we could have gotten together when you were back in California last week.”
“It was just a quick stop,” Art said, focusing on her now. He had to say it at some point, and there was no need to fear her reaction. The only thing he had to fear was what came after. Maybe fear wasn’t the right word. Wary. That was better. It was a road he’d taken before, a road he thought he’d never choose to travel down again. Until now.
“You want some dessert?” Anne asked and suggested. “What could they possibly do to ice cream?”
“Anne,” Art said, moving his hand atop hers, looking at her across the remnants of highly average Italian cuisine, “I’m going to take the Chicago job.” At another time in his life he might have waited for a reaction from her. Some validation before making his next declaration. Not anymore. “I want you to come with me.”
Well if that wasn’t direct… Leaving L.A. Leaving her practice. Leaving the teaching job at UCLA. She had already considered all those possibilities. Los Angeles was a place, a conglomeration of buildings and roads, a smattering of friends, but good friendships would survive some distance. Her practice was a bit harder to envision leaving, but the reality was that she had found it harder to think of healing others after so many of those she had known had lost their lives in the World Center. It was irrational, but that was the way of the human animal. Logic went only so far before emotion kicked in, and she was professional enough to know that she would need to heal before a full load of patients could count on her for the help they needed. Already she had trimmed her list by more than half. As for teaching…that was not an issue. The mention she’d made to Art about Chas Ohlmeyer had been a hint of sorts, but there was more to it than that — a job offer of her own, to be exact. A full professorship at the University of Chicago. Teaching all the time. She easily saw herself doing that. She easily saw herself doing that with Art as a part of her life.
But she saw something else, too. She needed something else. “You know I will…on one condition.”
He knew what that was, and, to be honest, he wouldn’t want it any other way. “I know. Don’t think about that right now, though. I want to do it right. Proper, Miss Preston.”
Anne felt the squeeze on her hand, and the funny feeling low in her stomach. “Whew. Well, I guess this meal will be memorable for more than the food.”
“Thankfully,” Art joked mildly. He tried to look strong, sure of himself, stoic. But he knew the stupid grin on his face was shooting those attempts to hell. Time to set this subject aside until its proper disposition. “So, how are the Griggs’s?”
“Nervous, excited, sad,” Anne answered. “Darren especially, because of Moises.”
“The stupid kid,” Art said.
“Confused, G-Man,” Anne countered. She reached into her purse and pulled out the postcard. “And for that cynical transgression you owe me a favor.”
Art took the card and read it. At least he wrote home. “How so?”
“Look at the postmark — Baltimore. Being this close and not knowing exactly where he is is eating Darren up. I know you’re busy, but is there any way you could look into it? Or ask someone to?” Anne noticed a change in Art’s expression. “What?”
No. It can’t be him. “Suspect number four is a young black male, age seventeen to twenty-five, small frame, close-cropped hair.” He fits the description. “Suspect number four was seen in the vicinity of the NALF headquarters on separate occasions.” He fits the profile. “Subjects show evidence of racially tinged hatred, possibly brought on by injustices they have suffered at the hands of a different race, whether perceived or real.” And he’s in the area. Art quickly flashed on the tape of Trooper Fitzroy’s murder, on the unidentified face of suspect number four. Left rear. A kid. He compared it to the face of the young man he’d confronted that Monday before Thanksgiving. The young, angry man taking off. Dropping out. Just like the NALF did two days later, after doing the damage.
“Art, what is it?”
He couldn’t tell her this. It was only a suspicion. A “wild” suspicion, he tried to convince himself. “Nothing,” Art said, shaking his head and forcing a smile. “I just remember that night at dinner.”
“Right. That was a hard night.”
You stupid, stupid kid. “He was a snot.”
“So, will you?”
Art fiddled with the card for a second. He knew they could find out some things from it: the postal processing center it was handled at, what stores carried the type of card. That was about it. General information. Beyond that it would take some ground pounding. But first came the question of confirmation — or an attempt at it. “Can I hang on to this?”