Just Friends (47 page)

He climbed on automatically toward the bald pate of granite mountaintop that was his goal. Finally he reached the summit, panting a little, and stood to admire the the landscape that unrolled beneath him to a hazy horizon. He was struck by its ordered perfection. Seen from this vantage-point, the terrain that seemed so confusing at ground-level now assumed an irresistible logic. He could see how streams connected with rivers, why farmers had shaped their fields to certain precise patterns, how the interlocking hills created a mirror-image of interlocking valleys, and that the maze of dirt-tracks where he had so often got lost were merely man-made copies of the natural contours of the landscape. He wished he could discern the structure of his novel this clearly. An author should have authority.

In that instant, Jack’s thoughts about writing and his feelings about Freya connected, striking a spark of insight that flamed into life and illuminated his whole book. He saw that in worrying over structure and theme he had forgotten the human heart of his story—forgotten it because he had refused to look into his own heart for so long. No writer could produce even a hundred words without revealing something of himself—without commiting to a viewpoint. Jack understood that it was his obstinacy in this matter that had blocked him for so long. He sat down on the bare rock, overwhelmed by a sense of release and excitement. Ideas, scenes, whole passages of dialogue began to race out of his brain, like fishing lines that had finally hooked onto something live.

It was late afternoon by the time Jack returned to the cabin. He washed hastily, throwing off his clothes and upending a bucket of spring water over his head. Then he dressed and hurried to his desk, grabbing bread and cheese on the way. His muscles ached but his brain was jumping. He placed two lamps on either side of his typewriter, prepared to be as profligate as need be with the kerosene. Even as he was sitting down, connections snapped together in his head. Fleetingly he wondered where Freya was and what she was doing. Then the conscious thought of her was swept away under an intoxicating rush of ideas. Placing his work-scratched hands on the keys, he began to type.

Freya was in Chelsea, having spent the afternoon poking around disused garages and run-down warehouses. Two weeks ago Lola Preiss had announced her intention to move the downtown gallery out of SoHo, which was rapidly turning into designer-label heaven, with rents to match. Several of the cannier dealers were moving up to Chelsea, and Lola didn’t want to be left behind. She had instructed Freya to draw up a shortlist of likely sites.

Now it was after five. The sun was shining, and today the temperature had dropped again into the pleasant mid-seventies. Freya wasn’t ready to go home. Instead, she decided to have a little wander, nowhere in particular—just, you know, wandering.

She walked out to the end of one of the old shipping piers and stared at the river for a while, then retraced her steps and began to thread her way through small leafy streets, aiming vaguely for the subway station. Everything looked familiar—the decorative wrought-iron hoops around the trees, the potholed sidewalk she always used to trip on, that man practicing baseball catches with his son, the sound of children screaming with delight as they ran in and out of a playground sprinkler. She did, in fact, seem to be on Jack’s actual street. She hoped he wasn’t looking out his window. She did not wish to see him. But it would silly to turn back now. So long as she stayed on the opposite side of the street from his apartment, she’d be safe.

Glancing across, she saw that there were builders at work on something, cluttering the curbside with their usual paraphernalia of planks and cement mixers and bags of sand. Freya felt a pang of regret that yet another house was being renovated. Soon the neighborhood would be full of bankers, and its character would change. But as she drew closer, her idle nostalgia sharpened to surprise. It was Jack’s house that was under reconstruction; specifically, it was Jack’s own apartment that was being gutted. What was going on?

Without pausing to think, Freya dashed across the street and asked the builders if they were working for Mr. Madison. But nobody knew except the foreman, and he had gone home early—as usual. They were pretty sure some new people were moving in, one of those hotshot career couples to judge by the fancy fittings they’d ordered.

Freya gripped the front railings and stared into the empty shell of the apartment she had known so well. Now that the first shock had passed, she realized that there was nothing particularly strange in the fact that Jack had moved. He’d said himself he couldn’t afford to stay. What surprised her was how swiftly he had acted. She wondered where he had gone.

She walked on, lost in thought, until a sound somewhere between a grunt and a greeting made her look up. It was the old Italian man in the undershirt, sitting on the stoop and tilting his beer bottle at her in greeting.

Freya waved back, then walked over to the bottom of the steps and looked up at him, shading her eyes from the sun. “Do you remember my friend Jack,” she asked. “A big blond guy, early thirties, who used to live in the apartment they’re working on down there?” She pointed.

“Sure.”

“Well, do you know what’s happened to him?”

“Gone,” said the man, swilling his beer. “Moved out.”

“How long ago?”

“Maybe three, four weeks.”

“Do you happen to know where he went? Did you talk to him?”

“I say to him, ‘You moving out?’ And he say to me, ‘I’m leaving the city.’ ”

“Leaving the city?”
Freya was stunned. “But why? Where?”

The old man gave her a baleful look. “What am I, psychic? People come. People go. That’s New York.”

Freya thanked him politely, and walked on. She told herself that it was silly to feel unsettled. It was of no interest to her where Jack had gone. Jack was a bastard. She could never forgive him. She never wanted to see him again, and had told him so.

Never.
The word seemed to reverberate in her chest. She saw the long months stretching ahead—July, August, September . . . Surely he’d come back in September, to start his teaching courses.

But what if he didn’t? What if she had driven him away for good? Freya realized that she couldn’t even remember the name of his home town. Oakville? Oakland?

Oh, what did it matter? She stepped straight off the curb at Tenth Avenue and almost collided with a bicyclist, who swerved wildly and gave her the finger. Freya wondered what Jack had done with Rosinante.
Where are you?
she shouted angrily in her head. But there was no answer.

Jack had settled into a routine now. Every day he got up with the birds at dawn, washed, dressed, and did the necessary chores. Then he wrote right through the day until five, when he went out for a long evening hike or a swim in the stream, and sometimes caught himself a trout for supper. At night he’d settle by the fire and revise what he’d written that day and make notes for tomorrow. Then he’d climb into his hammock and be asleep by ten. It was sort of boring, but he felt healthy and energized and the routine kept him focused. Slowly the pages were building on his desk.

Saturday afternoons were the exceptions, when he spruced himself up a little and jumped in the pickup for a brief return to civilization. He’d gotten so used to solitude that the bustle of the small town seemed as exciting as a walk up Fifth Avenue. (Hey, a pizza place! Women! TV!) Everything took a long time because people liked to talk, and it seemed only friendly to talk back. First, Jack would check to see if there was any mail waiting for him at the post office, though there usually wasn’t, because hardly anyone knew he was here. Then he’d shop for food and supplies. In the funny little supermarket-cum-grocery store he resolutely ignored the rack stocked with wine and beer (hard liquor was forbidden by law), in the same way as he ignored a certain look the checkout girl had given him when she asked if he was new in town or just passing through. (Down, boy!) Once or twice, as he passed the display of postcards, he’d thought of sending one to Freya—just a one-liner, a signal. But what could he say? “I’m here writing my book”: too boastful. “Thinking of you”—she’d tear it up. After shopping, he’d go to the Barbecue and Pickin’ Parlor, where he’d eat a mountain of chicken, ribs, beef, and pork, served on a wooden, pig-shaped platter with creamed corn, biscuits, and gravy. Then he’d stagger back to his truck and drive home to read
Remembrance of Things Past
by the fire. He had plowed his way to book five and was almost beginning to see the point of Proust.

Today was a sizzler, even though a new bronze veil on the upper mountain slopes warned that autumn was already on its way. Jack parked the pickup on the main street and headed quickly for the shade of the post office with its clanking fan.

“Looks like you’re Mr. Popular today,” said the man at the counter when Jack finally reached the small window, and he handed over three letters. Jack took them over to a corner, feeling curiously uneasy as he noted that his father, Lauren, and Candace had all chosen to write to him at the same time. He decided to open Candace’s letter first (pale lilac stationary, with her address written on the flap in swirly writing). He slit open the envelope and took out what was evidently a long and important communication.

“Dear Jack,”
he read.
“I’m afraid that the news I have to tell you will come as a terrible shock. . . .”

CHAPTER 33

THREE MONTHS LATER

“Don’t be nervous.”

“
I am not nervous!
... How do I look?”

“I’ve told you before: you look fine.”

“
Fine?
Last time I asked, you said
beautiful
.”

“You look beautiful.”

“The time before, you said
fabulous
.”

“You look fabulous
and
beautiful—and radiant and serene and all the other things a bride’s supposed to be.”

“What about my hair? I hate November: New York’s always so windy.”

“Your hair is perfection. We’re in a cab, remember?”

“What if he isn’t there?”

“He’ll be there. Stop fiddling with your bouquet.”

“But I was so mean to him!”

“And he was horrible to you. You’ve forgiven each other. That’s what love means.”

“I think I’m going to faint.”

“You are not going to faint.”

“I really love him, you know.”

“I know.”

“Oh, God, we’re here! Did you bring the Valium?”

The church was stuffy and the bride late. This was the third time that the organist had played “Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring.” Jack fiddled with his cuff link and stole a glance at the rows of guests dressed to kill, at all the faces familiar from childhood. Expensive perfumes clashed with the heavy fragrance of open-throated Madonna lilies. He felt hot and constricted in this ridiculous outfit. He could feel the stock around his neck pushing his chin into an aggressive tilt, as if he were about to lead the last Confederate charge against the damned Yankees.

Still, he’d promised Candace, and he’d promised his father. He had to go through with it.

“Okay: deep breath. Are you ready?”

“You go first.”

“Don’t be silly.”

“Take a peek. Please. For me?”

The door to the church stood ajar. A modest aisle paved in colored tiles led through rows of seats, packed with murmuring guests. At the far end a man waited, rigid with anxiety, staring at a particularly colorful representation of the crucifixion. Freya smiled. Michael turned his head, and his face flooded with such joy and relief that her eyes pricked with tears.

“... we are gathered together to join this man and this woman in holy matrimony, which is an honorable estate ...”

Jack caught his stepmother’s eye. She winked, and for an instant his tension relaxed.

Yet the solemnity of the service made it hard not to take marriage seriously. Love. Fidelity. Fortitude. Endurance. It felt quite different to be up here at the altar instead of sitting among the congregation.

“Do you, Candace Marie Twink, take this man to be your lawful wedded husband ...”

Jack snapped to attention. His big moment was coming up.
Where was the ring?

“Do you, Michael Josiah Petersen, take this woman to be your lawful wedded wife—to have and to hold from this day forward? ...”

“I do.”

Freya looked at his face, so proud and excited. She had never seen his brown eyes glow like this, or such a tender curve to his smile. Love was truly amazing: powerful, irresistible, unpredictable. Who could have guessed that out of all the women in the world, the right one for Michael—the only one—would be her dear friend Cat, whose face shone with the same happy confidence as she repeated the marriage vows?