Hello, It's Me Page 16

  Or did he?

  She wants so badly to believe that she heard his voice today.

  Because if Andre could find a way back to her, he would. If it were possible for him to communicate with her from beyond the grave, he would.

  Annie is positive about that.

  A.H. + A.H.

  FOREVER.

  With a sob, she turns her back abruptly on the tree, throwing the shovel and metal detector aside once again.

  “Mommy!” Milo beckons from the water’s edge. “I found a starfish!”

  You were wrong, Andre. Nothing lasts forever.

  “Mommy! Come see the starfish!”

  Annie kicks off her sandals and carries them in one hand, walking down to where Milo and Trixie are crouched over a shallow tide pool.

  This is the hardest day you’ll ever have, Annie.

  From here on in, she promises herself, it will all be downhill.

  Or is it uphill?

  Why does it sound like a challenge no matter how it’s phrased?

  “Look at him, Mommy,” Trixie says, pointing to the living starfish that lies in a few inches of water several feet from the lapping waves.

  “He’s beached,” Milo says sadly. “Can I pick him up and put him back into the ocean?”

  “No, don’t touch him, sweetie. You might hurt him.”

  “But he’s stuck.” Trixie’s voice is little-girl plaintive.

  “Yeah, Mom, he wants to go swim out to sea.”

  “When the tide comes in, it’ll take him back out,” Annie tells her worried children. “Why don’t you both see if you can find some pretty shells for me?”

  “I want to find Daddy’s treasure instead,” Milo says, racing away with his bucket and shovel.

  “Me, too! Wait for me!” Trixie cries.

  “Hey, Batman,” Annie calls after her son. “Wait for your sister.”

  He turns around with a scowl. “I’m Green Lantern, remember?”

  “Sorry, Green Lantern. I forgot. Wait for your sister. She can be Wonder Woman.”

  “I don’t want to be Wonder Woman!” is Trixie’s inevitable protest. “I want to be Barbie.”

  “Green Lantern doesn’t hang around with Barbie,” Milo protests in disgust. “She’s not even in the Justice League.”

  Annie sighs. “Milo, please.”

  “I’m the Green Lantern!”

  “Well, I have a mission for you, Green Lantern. You, too, Barbie. Go see if you can find that lost chest of gold.”

  With that, they’re off down the beach, in search of Daddy’s treasure.

  Facing the sea, Annie closes her eyes wearily, the sand hot between her toes and the salt wind cool in her face.

  She’s so damned tired of whirling around and around on a carousel of endless grief.

  So damned tired of longing for the impossible.

  Dwelling on the phone calls to Andre that most likely never happened; yearning for another from Thom that will probably never come.

  When she opens her eyes again, she finds herself gazing at a distant white triangle skimming along on the water.

  What she wouldn’t give to be out there on the waves, sailing away to . . .

  Where, Annie? Where could you possibly go?

  Andre is gone, he isn’t coming back. There’s no escape from that reality, just as there’s no escape from the responsibilities that anchor her firmly here in her solitary life.

  Lucky you, she wistfully tells both the sailor at the helm of the distant sailboat and the seagull that soars toward the horizon.

  Then, shaking her head, she looks down, her gaze falling once again on the stranded starfish, waiting helplessly for the tide to come in.

  With a deft hand on the tiller, Thom navigates the custom-built cutter away from the wind, bringing her around parallel to the distant shoreline. A smattering of dark rooftops jut from clumps of green foliage in the distance, marking the last populated area before the tip of the island.

  Easing the sails all the way out, Thom launches the boat into an exhilarating run along the whitecaps toward Montauk’s famed lighthouse.

  It’s no accident that he’s chosen to head out east this afternoon instead of following his usual southwestern route along the barrier island.

  Annie’s out there somewhere, Thom thinks, wishing in one instant that he had thought to bring a pair of binoculars on board; loathing himself for that unsettling thought in the next.

  Yeah, sure. What is he going to do? Spy on her house from out here, with the stretch of sea to provide a safe buffer between them?

  He should have called her, at least.

  Why didn’t he call her?

  Because he isn’t man enough. Because he doesn’t know what to say. Because he doesn’t know how he feels.

  Yes, you do. Who are you kidding? You’re crazy about her.

  All right, so he knows how he feels—he just isn’t sure why he feels it.

  And questioning his motives is the wisest thing he can do right now, for his own sake and for Annie’s. The last thing he wants is to come to terms with the possibility that he’s subconsciously been using her. But if that’s the case, he can nip it in the bud before somebody gets hurt.

  Namely, Annie.

  Or, God forbid, her children.

  And you think the kids aren’t still waiting for the chicken nuggets you promised them?

  You think Annie isn’t expecting the call you promised her?

  They’ll all be hurt when you let them down. That’s a given.

  The sails are flapping in the breeze, Thom realizes. He glances up at the blue and red telltales tied to the shrouds and mainstay.

  The wind has shifted.

  He quickly trims the sails, expertly turning into a broad reach, then a beam reach, just the way his father taught him decades ago.

  “Harness the energy,” Thomas Brannock III would bark, watching his son struggling to control the rig. “Timing is everything. Keep her in position, or you’ll capsize.”

  Tempting as it sometimes was to do just that, tossing his unrelenting father into the waves, Thom always managed to stay on course. But he could hardly wait for the day he’d be skilled enough to be alone out here on the whitecaps, fully in command.

  Well, here he is. Fully in command, with nobody to answer to. Nobody to tell him how to harness the energy, to stay on course, to keep from capsizing.

  Nobody around for what seems like miles other than Thom, and a seagull that swoops low over the boat, squawking loudly. It splashes into the sea nearby, ostensibly diving for fish.

  All at once, alone is the last place Thom wants to be.

  Keeping the tiller steady with one hand, he reaches into his pocket with the other and pulls out his cell phone.

  He flips it open eagerly . . . then frowns when he sees the words NO SERVICE flashing in the display.

  He turns the phone off.

  Then on again.

  Still no service.

  “What the . . . ?” Shaking his head in frustration, he turns it off once more, then on again with an almost frantic jab of his finger.

  NO SERVICE.

  Thom curses so loudly that the gull bobbing on the water beside the boat flutters its wings, startled.

  He tosses the phone aside and it lands with a clatter at his feet. So much for calling Annie. It wasn’t meant to be.

  The gull gazes up at him with one unblinking beady eye, almost as if he is challenging him.

  Suddenly, nothing matters more to Thom than hearing Annie’s voice.

  He’s made calls to shore many times in the past, although never from this far out on the island.

  There must be service nearby.

  He’ll just keep sailing until he finds a spot where his telephone can make a connection.

  The phone is ringing as Annie herds the children in the door after a futile few hours spent on Copper Beach.

  “Telephone, Mommy!” Trixie announces unnecessarily.

  “I hear it, sweetie.�
�� The moth ballet swiftly reclaims the stage in Annie’s stomach, and it’s all she can do to keep from racing toward the nearest receiver.

  It won’t be him, she tells herself, forcing her legs to merely saunter across the living room.

  Still, when she reaches the phone, she finds herself snatching it up with a breathlessly hopeful, “Hello?”

  “Hi. Are you all right?”

  “Erika.” Annie exhales heavily. “I’m fine. Why?”

  “Because today is—”

  “You don’t have to remind me!”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s okay.” Annie runs a troubled hand through her hair, wincing when it snags in the wind-blown tangle of curls. “I didn’t mean to snap at you, Erika. I just . . .”

  I just hoped you’d be somebody else, that’s all.

  She doesn’t dare say it. Not unless she wants Erika on her case about dating again.

  “You don’t have to apologize to me, Annie. Listen, I’m on my way out so I don’t have time to chat, but I just wanted to let you know that I talked to Dr. Leaver this morning and he said you should call him.”

  “Dr. Leaver?”

  “I told you about him the other day . . . ?”

  “Oh!” Annie shrugs. “I don’t think I need to call him after all. I’m fine.”

  After a pause, Erika says, obviously weighing her words carefully, “I’ll give you the number anyway, Annie. Just in case. Do you have a pen and paper handy?”

  “Did you forget who you’re talking to?” Annie asks ruefully, gazing around at the cluttered room. “I’ll just get the number from you next—”

  “Go hunt down a pen and paper, Annie,” Erika says in the same no-nonsense tone Annie uses with her children when their options are severely limited.

  It takes Annie a few minutes to locate a working pen and a scrap of paper that isn’t already scribbled on. She reluctantly takes down the number Erika rattles off, then slips it under a magnet on the fridge.

  “You should call him, Annie.”

  “I will.”

  But she won’t.

  “Have fun tonight,” she tells Erika as she wanders back to the living room. Her friend, she remembers, has a date with somebody new, a stockbroker she met through one of those Internet dating services she’s resorted to using.

  “I’ll try.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “It’s just so much work,” her friend says wearily. “Getting to know somebody new, asking and answering all those first-date questions . . . who needs the stress?”

  “Not me,” Annie quips.

  “Don’t let me discourage you. I’ve been doing this without a break for years, Annie. The fun has kind of worn off. It’ll be different for you, when you’re ready to start dating again.”

  “Careful, Milo, don’t fall,” Annie warns her son, who has climbed onto the couch but is nowhere near on the verge of falling.

  He tells her so, loudly.

  But at least Annie’s succeeded in changing the course of the conversation, as Erika asks how the kids are doing, and whether they’d be interested in coming into the city the week after next to see the latest comic-strip-turned-feature film opening next weekend.

  “I’d invite them to see it this Saturday, but it’ll be hard to get in opening weekend.”

  “Yes, and if it works out with this guy tonight you want to make sure you’re free next weekend.”

  Erika laughs. “You know me too well.”

  “So am I invited on this outing, too?” Annie asks.

  “Not to the movie. You can drop the kids with me and then go off and do something on your own.”

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  “Nope. If you’re around, how can I possibly spoil my godchildren with too many Sno-Caps and Jujubes?”

  “What am I supposed to do with myself while you’re all at the movies?”

  “That’s up to you,” Erika says breezily. “Let’s make it a week from Wednesday, and you can all spend the night. I’ll make sure I’m free on Thursday morning. We’ll go to breakfast.”

  “Erika—”

  “Put it in your calendar, Annie. A week from this Wednesday. You can meet me at my office. My last Wednesday appointment always ends at four.”

  “But—”

  “Gotta run, Annie. Mr. Wonderful might be waiting.”

  “Good luck.” Annie hangs up with a shake of her head, envying Erika’s freedom to dash out the door unencumbered, even if it is merely for an evening of stiff conversation with a total stranger who may or may not turn out to be a jerk.

  Funny how Annie’s conversations with Thom lack that first-date awkwardness. Not that they’ve ever even had an official “date.”

  Or ever will.

  “Where did Auntie Erika invite us and not you?” asks Trixie the expert eavesdropper, darting at Annie’s feet as she crosses the room to replace the phone in its cradle.

  “A movie.”

  “Are we going?”

  “Only if you’re good,” Annie says with a smile.

  She knows what Erika’s up to. Her friend, whose taste runs to independent films and imported caviar, is about as interested in Jujubes and G-rated blockbusters about super heroes as she is in staying single for the rest of her life. Her intent is to give Annie some time to herself . . .

  And I’ll take it, Annie thinks. If nothing else, she can lounge around alone in Erika’s one-bedroom apartment eating popcorn and watching HBO. Bliss.

  Too bad it’s almost two weeks away.

  But maybe it’s just as well.

  Today, she has other things to think about.

  Then again, today, the day she’s been dreading for so long, is winding down. Soon it will be over, another milestone behind her.

  “Where are you going, Mommy?” Trixie asks as she heads for the backdoor with the receiver.

  “I’ll be right back, sweetheart. I just have to make one more call.”

  “Can’t you call from inside the house?”

  “No,” Annie says simply. “I can’t.”

  Outside, she sits on the back step, the telephone in her trembling hand.

  Dusk is just beginning to fall; the world around her still and hushed the way it always seems to be at this time of day in summer. The air is heavy with humidity and the scent of the sea and everything blooming all around her—perennials and weeds alike.

  Annie inhales deeply, exhales heavily, slaps a buzzing mosquito away from her ear. She looks up at the darkening sky, where a pale moon is barely visible beyond the leafy branches overhead.

  Where are you, Andre? Are you up there? Are you right here beside me?

  Why don’t I feel you?

  I should feel you now, today, of all days.

  If you’re going to make contact with me, it should be now.

  Holding her breath, she dials the phone.

  This time, it’s going to happen.

  She knows it.

  She can sense it.

  It’s as if the entire earth is holding its breath, waiting for her to connect with Andre once again.

  “Hey, you’ve reached Andre. You know what to do. Wait for the beep and don’t forget to—”

  Annie presses the TALK button in utter despair, disconnecting the call.

  She’s a misguided fool, a grief-stricken wife, a pathetic, lonely widow. Andre is gone; he’s been gone for a year now.

  It’s time to move on, time to let go, time to forget.

  So why can’t I?

  “Mommy?” Trixie calls from somewhere inside the house. “I’m hungry.”

  Yes. Her children are hungry. Her children have needs. It’s her job to take care of them. Alone.

  Milo and Trixie are Andre’s legacy; they’re all she has left of him. They’ll have to be enough.

  Wiping tears from her cheeks, Annie steels herself for the lonely night ahead, the lonely lifetime ahead.

  Back in the house, she returns to the living room, where her chi
ldren are waiting.

  Then, about to return the phone to its cradle, Annie notices that the answering machine’s red light is blinking.

  She never called him back.

  Should Thom be surprised?

  Probably not . . . but he can’t help it.

  Painstakingly inching his way back toward Manhattan’s distant skyline in Sunday night traffic, he tells himself firmly that he’s leaving Annie behind, both literally and figuratively.

  He wasn’t even planning to call Annie on Friday.

  Not only did he call her, but he left an effusive message about what a wonderful time he’d had the night before. The entire time he was talking, he was wondering whether she was there, listening, screening his call.

  Maybe she was.

  Maybe she wasn’t.

  In any case, she didn’t call back.

  So what?

  He’s a busy man. He doesn’t have time to play games with a fickle female, and that, he concludes, is precisely what he was doing the other night.

  All right, his feelings for her felt authentic at the time.

  But that’s because he’s hardly a relationship connoisseur.

  He’d surely be able to recognize a forged Renoir, a Rolex knockoff, a lesser champagne trying to pass itself off as Cristal . . .

  But when it comes to love, Thom is far from an expert.

  Not that love is what he assumed he was feeling in the first place. No, but he did think it was something.

  Something real, some life-altering emotion he’d never before experienced.

  Well, he won’t be fooled again.

  Not that he’ll have the chance.

  Annie didn’t call him back Friday night, or Saturday, and she didn’t call him back today.

  He jumped every time the phone rang, and it was always business.

  As it should be.

  As it very likely is now, when his cell phone rings as the car creeps toward the Midtown Tunnel just ahead.

  But it isn’t business.

  It’s Annie.

  “I got your message,” she says hurriedly, “and I’m sorry it took me so long to call back. It just hasn’t been a good weekend around here.”

  “It’s okay.”

  Do not be elated just to hear her voice, you idiot.

  “I figured you’d be back in the city by now . . . are you?” she asks, sounding almost hopeful.