Never Tomorrow Page 3

  Her receptionist announced Ed’s arrival, and Karen straightened her shoulders.

  Some secrets must remain secrets.

  FOUR

  Death tiptoes from afar

  On pretty winged feet

  Closer and closer

  Sliding over thriving bodies

  Choking away life and love.

  Blaine reread the lines. Not a very good attempt at poetry, but writing was the only release she had. She tried once more.

  Brief, sweet lull of life

  Precedes retreat

  Into the wash of death,

  Bathed forever in bitterness.

  Blaine rolled the pencil in her slender fingers. With her left hand she pushed back tendrils that had escaped her barrette and chided herself. She had to stop obsessing and prepare her lecture on Yeats.

  If only a few of the sixty freshmen she taught in a large group had a tinge of enthusiasm for English. She disliked staring into their glazed eyes. What was more important than the great themes of classic literature—truth and beauty? Blaine subconsciously rattled off the answer—health mattered more, the health of your child and faithfulness in your husband.

  The invisible shards of parenting a dying child had turned life into tiny slices of unpredictability. Will Cindy live through the day, or will she die? And then when death finally came, what didn’t I do right? What did I do to deserve this? Blaine accepted that she couldn’t stop cystic fibrosis, but why hadn’t she been able to halt the force destroying her marriage?

  This force had a name. When Althea Fontaine started to work side by side with her husband Larry, she’d awakened sensibilities he’d displayed at age twenty-two.

  The first knowledge of his affair had been scary and agonizing. Blaine was no longer a youthful charmer. She fought back all last year, trying to carve out a real life for her and her husband apart from their day-to-day anxiety over Cindy. She found childcare she trusted and planned several overnights with Larry to evoke past times of joy. She promised him there’d be romance again, if only they could survive this.

  Several times she scheduled meeting her husband at noon for a picnic in the park with his favorite lunch, ham on rye with lots of cheese and big dill pickles, followed by love in the afternoon at a downtown hotel. At the last minute, he always cancelled. She’d begged him to go to a marriage seminar with her. He declined and wouldn’t hear of personal counseling.

  As Larry’s affection toward Althea increased, Blaine consoled herself that a wife doesn’t hold the allure of an illicit affair. But deep down she knew his reason for leaving was more complex than that. He chose not to watch Cindy die and blamed her because she couldn’t stop their daughter’s death either. To escape, Larry found distraction in a woman ten years younger and chose to be powerless against Althea’s charm. Nothing Blaine did could pull the man she’d married as a college student away from his sensual obsession.

  Months later, on the worst day of her life, he rejected her like a pair of old shoes, still in good condition but no longer wanted. In agony incomprehensible, Blaine’s husband left her.

  She jabbed her pencil into the paper in front of her. This useless reverie needed to stop. It took less than a year for twelve years of marriage to become history. Now she labeled herself a scorned and scarred woman deprived of the one adult relationship that had mattered most. Wasn’t that a kind of death? Was that why her poetry was filled with the subject? And her dreams?

  She sipped from her water bottle. Six months after their divorce, Larry was diagnosed with cancer. The irony was that she’d hoped he’d return so she could nurse him. But he achieved remission without her while his pretty Althea tended him. Blaine feared it was only a matter of time before Althea would be on to a new conquest. She couldn’t hate her ex-husband and hoped he never had to experience rejection like she had.

  Blaine ambled over to the mirror, wiped the dust away with her palm, and touched her reflection on the hard surface. Still pretty for a forty-two-year-old woman, with surprisingly few lines, considering the stress her daughter’s illness had caused. Not even one gray hair. She had a nice nose turned up ever so slightly and a patrician chin, as Larry used to call it. Pretty enough to rate second looks from the mature doctors on the hospital floors she frequented.

  She snatched the page of poetry from the desk and tore it in two. Ripping Althea Fontaine’s throat appealed to her more. Immediately horrified and ashamed of herself, she shook her head.

  Real life had been a huge disappointment. Literature alone remained a comfort. If only it were enough. Her pain was too sharp, too deep to find complete escape anywhere. Blaine started a fresh page, searching her mind for the descriptive poetic words she longed to find. Instead she wrote, God loves me, I know He does, but I’ve lost my daughter to death and the man I love through betrayal. Why must life hurt so much?

  Blaine contemplated getting individual counseling but feared that might be the cruelest joke of all. Her divorce recovery group with Dr. Karen Trindle gave her glimpses into the pain of other women, which only intensified her own. What words of comfort were there? She was locked in despair and needed to move on, that’s what a therapist would say. Friends had suggested forgetting all about Larry, but their words rang like a curse in her ears. How?

  Perhaps a grief counselor was the answer. But where and with whom? A female—that much she decided. Tomorrow she’d ask around and check her insurance benefits.

  Blaine shut her notebook, stood, and stretched. She trudged into the kitchen and microwaved a frozen turkey dinner.

  How could she reinvent herself and make a new life?

  FIVE

  At eight a.m. Jordan Caldwell settled into his desk chair and clicked on his computer at the Townsend Real Estate Firm. By nine he’d organized his day’s contact list and reviewed the ad copy for his listings in Sunday’s paper. For a driven executive, usually highly focused, today was tough. He forced himself to ignore the woman’s face that kept appearing in his mind.

  Jordan caught his profile in the chrome office cabinet. Blue eyes, framed by dark hair and olive, smooth skin, were undoubtedly his best feature and he used them to full advantage professionally and socially. They blazed with enthusiasm now as he planned his strategy for locating this beautiful mystery woman.

  He stood to his full six feet, sauntered to the credenza, and refilled his coffee cup. He stayed fit, amazingly, considering he’d had this sedentary job ten years since college graduation and rarely worked out. His love of golf, weather allowing, and noon basketball at the “Y” two days a week with the guys helped. Basketball was one of the inflexibly scheduled appointments he made for himself.

  Jordan anticipated no trouble tracking Whitney down, even though he didn’t have her last name. She’d told him where she worked when they’d met at the wedding ceremony of mutual friends the previous Saturday while blowing bubbles at the departing bride and groom. During the reception they were seated at opposite ends of the room. Sadly, she left immediately after dinner before he could shake himself free from his date.

  Information-gathering was a skill Jordan prided himself on having perfected. Salesmen had to be innovative. One of his favorite methods was making a deliberate misstatement and letting his prey correct his error with the fact he wanted. Who didn’t like a chance to be right and show off?

  Jordan tried the technique now on the phone with the receptionist at the Cortland Courier when she announced Whitney was out.

  “Oh, I thought Thursday was her day off.”

  “No, it’s today after we go to press. Would you like to leave a message for Ms. Barnes?”

  Jordan smiled as the receptionist went for the bait. “No, thanks, I’ll call back.”

  He hung up and called back ten minutes later, disguising his voice. “I’m Denny from Harvey’s floral. I have a bouquet to deliver today to a Whitney Barnes. May I have her street address and phone? The water’s spilled on the delivery label, and I can’t make it out.”

  H
e was counting on the woman to take pride in being helpful. “Just a moment.” Several minutes passed. Not a good sign. Jordan was about to hang up when she came back on and rattled off the information.

  He’d stop on his way home from work and order flowers. His little lie would have some truth in it—no harm done.

  How foolish the receptionist was to give out personal information so casually. Didn’t she know he could have been a serial killer?

  SIX

  Whitney studied her naked body, red-blotched from rubbing herself dry after her shower. Would she ever find someone who wanted to wake up to her 365 days a year? Not that she cared. Hadn’t she told that to the counselor?

  She pulled underwear from her dresser drawer, slipped into it, then went to her tiny closet and examined her wardrobe with more interest than usual. She pulled her gray herringbone pants suit to the light, checking that the leg creases were still sharp. With a melon-colored turtleneck this was one of her four basic semi-dressy outfits. Whitney felt sophisticated whenever she put it on, and tonight she wanted that effect.

  Ever since Whitney had read her first prince and princess fairy tale, she’d longed to be swept off her feet. What was intimate connection really like, not just sex, but the soulful experience of a man’s love? Did it even exist? It would start with affinity of the mind, but there had to be more, too, she was sure. Something inside me will know, right? She’d had four or five male friendships but never contemplated a lifetime commitment with anyone she’d known.

  Why hadn’t she ever asked Mom how she knew Dad was the man for her?

  Several years ago she’d stopped longing for a prince and accepted her situation. Perhaps she was meant to go through life alone. She called it heart contentment, God’s peace. Her changed attitude began junior year of college when she attended a revival service at a church in London and discovered she could have an intimate relationship with God. The inner happiness she’d always longed for was no longer dependent on human circumstances. God cherished her. Yet she still needed to work on not depleting her joy with excessive grieving for her mom or obsessive perfectionism in her newspaper work.

  Dressed, she twirled in front of her mirror and an image of Jordan popped into her mind. He’d entered her life during a brief encounter at a wedding. She found him interesting because he’d made her laugh.

  From their recent lengthy phone conversation when she’d accepted his dinner invitation, he proved he could be serious, too. Whitney was flattered he’d remembered her. Definite friendship potential, at least.

  Minutes later, her make-up on, she slipped her feet into black leather boots and grabbed her shoulder bag. She said aloud, “I’m off to explore my future.” Chiding herself, she added, “Stop being melodramatic, Whitney Barnes.”

  The 800 Club, four blocks north of Main Street, occupied the first floor of a luxurious lakefront hotel. Jordan had suggested meeting at seven. She waited alone about twenty minutes at a table in the lounge, enduring occasional stares from men at the bar.

  Whitney gave Jordan a mental critical check mark. She often rushed but rarely ran late and never for something “big.” Maybe she didn’t fall into a priority class with Jordan.

  He strolled in at almost 7:30, looking like a model from GQ in khaki trousers and a navy sports coat. He whistled softly when he located her. “Hi, good-looking.” He grinned broadly.

  Her face heated. “Excuse me?”

  “I know, that sounds like a come on even if it is true, doesn’t it? And where have you been the last thirty minutes, I suppose you’ll ask.” His tone was warm and light-hearted.

  “Well?”

  “Guilty as charged, but for a very good reason. Will you believe it?”

  “Most likely not.”

  “Then I’ll skip it.”

  Whitney tossed her head back with a laugh and followed him into the crowded restaurant. The maitre’d led them to a reserved linen-covered, corner table aglow with a votive candle nestled in crystal.

  “I’m going to wine you and dine you in style to make up for it,” Jordan whispered into her ear as he pulled out her chair. “I warn you—I’m trying to impress you.”

  Whitney restrained her smile. “Nice, but unoriginal.”

  He pretended a hurt look then switched back to his grin. A waiter zoomed over, carrying two water glasses with clinking ice and set them on the table, promising to return in a few minutes.

  “You’re the prettiest girl here. That, too, may be a standard line, but I mean it.”

  Whitney chuckled then sat up straighter. She liked the instant rapport that followed between them as they bantered back and forth about high school and college experiences.

  Jeffrey, their middle-aged waiter, sported a tiny mustache and returned twice seeking their order before they’d even checked the entrees. On his third try, Whitney selected poached salmon with dill sauce, baby asparagus spears, and rice pilaf.

  “Excellent choice,” Jeffrey crooned. “You’ll want to save room for our prize-winning cheesecake.”

  Jordan ordered next. “Bruschetta appetizer for two, filet mignon with baked potato, no sour cream. And I hope you also have chocolate cake for dessert?”

  Their waiter smiled. “Our Devil’s Choco-delight.”

  “Perfect.”

  Jordan steered the discussion along superficial topics, and Whitney relaxed, a rare sensation. She hadn’t enjoyed much of anything recently except work. She tried to recall when her last date had been—she’d declined several invitations since returning from England. Now, for some reason, a male friendship seemed attractive.

  Halfway through his steak, Jordan switched to more personal questions. “Your work fascinates me. What made you go into journalism? Creative writing was my worst subject.”

  Whitney smeared butter on a miniature French roll and watched it melt into the warm bread before answering. “Long or short answer?”

  “Both.”

  “Promise not to laugh?”

  “Of course.” He leaned back and crossed his arms.

  “I want to change our culture – one reader, one family at a time…”

  “Why?” Jordan sipped his drink. “This is a great country with opportunity to work and make a good life, if someone’s diligent.”

  Whitney hesitated then responded, “Except for certain aspects of our morality, of course. Don’t get me started. I’m a journalist, remember?”

  “Like what aspects?”

  “Violence, promiscuity, we kill babies without remorse, give kids condoms that don’t protect them completely from sexually transmitted diseases, some of which are resistant to any treatment.”

  Jordan’s eyes widened. “What’s wrong with abortion? Especially if a woman’s health is at stake?”

  “That’s rarely true. Most of the time going through natural delivery and giving the baby up for adoption is healthier for women than abortion any day. Best of all is God’s plan of waiting until marriage to have sex, and then welcoming children.”

  “Marriage? To be frank, perhaps more than I ought to be, the idea scares me. I was raised by a married aunt and uncle who seem to tolerate rather than enjoy one another. Everybody I’ve ever known who’s gotten married ends up losing the spark that brought them together. As for God’s plan? Like he has one.” Jordan’s jaw clenched. “When I was twelve, my parents died in a car accident. Poor planning, I’d say.”

  “How sad. I’m sorry you lost your parents.” Why had she gotten on her soapbox?

  He shrugged. “My aunt and uncle are good to me. They don’t have any religion, so I’ve a gap along those lines. But I’m not closed to discussing it,” he added hastily.

  “Actually, I have sympathy for anyone who doesn’t know God. He’s been a real help to me through some hard times. I don’t know how I’d have survived otherwise.”

  Jordan shrugged. “If I believed God would solve all my problems, I’d probably sit back and do nothing. I like being in the driver’s seat. Guess I’m a control fr
eak.”

  Whitney didn’t want to give a glib answer. She lifted her glass, swirled the lemon in the water, and took a sip before replying. First date was too soon for such deep talk. How had this happened? Why did she feel compelled to answer him? “For me, it’s the opposite. Because I feel God’s presence, I think I’m more energized to help myself and others.” She worked the conversation back to his interests—work and sports—but sensed this wasn’t going well.

  Jordan glanced at his watch and tossed his napkin on the table. “Wow, almost nine-thirty.” He gestured to the waiter to take his credit card for the bill. “We talked past the early show times.”

  After signing the check, he walked around the table and pulled her chair out.

  Outside, the cold air dropped like lead upon them. They drifted across the parking lot without speaking. Whitney pulled her car keys from her over-sized bag. Jordan eased them from her hand and opened her car door. She opened her mouth to discuss late movie choices as he mumbled, “Better call it a night. I have an early day tomorrow.”

  A knot formed in Whitney’s stomach. “Really? You mentioned a show after dinner, Friday night and all.”

  “Yeah. Sorry if I’m disappointing you. Maybe another evening. I’m pretty beat.”

  She turned her face away. “No problem. I can use the time to play catch up.” She slid into her car without another word, her insides spluttering.

  Whitney turned the ignition key twice in her haste as Jordan hurried to his car. Her Honda made a grinding noise. From her rear view mirror she caught a vision of Jordan’s wave as his car shot past her.

  Whitney fought to keep tears from spilling over her lids. What a brush-off. Did the different values and God talk get to him? Or maybe he had indigestion? Face it, Whitney, you bombed. Forget it. Maybe it’s a good thing.