Rooms: A Novel (4 page)

CHAPTER 6

Freedom. Sweet freedom. Micah walked out of his office Thursday evening at six thirty and took a deep breath. Free of having to give Julie an answer he wasn’t ready to give, free of the grind. He used to love the rush of RimSoft—seventy-hour workweeks were never a problem.
Were,
past tense. He could get used to a forty-hour workweek.

Plus it would feel good to get away from what had become Seattle’s version of Bizarro World. The missing racquetball game and the cross-country trip his car took by itself gnawed at his mind like a gopher on steroids. Not to mention the framed
Inc.
cover that decided to do a Houdini vanishing act. Wait. Houdini was the escape artist. Perfect. That’s exactly what Micah would do. In the morning, when he woke up to the roar of the ocean, his escape from the unexplained weirdness in Seattle would be complete.

There was no plan for the weekend. His Seattle life was so scheduled and under such control, having no agenda unsettled him for a moment. But as his car chewed up the miles with Jack Johnson’s soothing guitar and vocals purring in the background, he allowed himself not to know what the next three days would bring.

When he reached Astoria, he shot up a quick prayer. Couldn’t hurt. The first two times it stuck in his throat. The third he said, “God, I don’t know if You hear me anymore. But this house . . . it draws me. It scares me. Both at the same time. Can You explain why Archie built the place there? Plus the strange stuff going on in Seattle . . . I . . .”

He didn’t know what else to say. “I hope You know what I’m trying to tell You. Amen.”

God was silent, but Micah had expected Him to be, so it was all right.

When Micah arrived, he set down his bags and went straight to the master bedroom and crashed. He didn’t move again till just after seven the next morning.

As he sipped a cup of dark roast coffee from his French press, he watched seagulls dive through the air like
Star Wars
tie fighters. To fly. What a rush that would be. The thought gave him sudden inspiration. Running. Back in high school he’d flown, running the eight hundred meters faster than anyone in his school ever had. His senior season he finished first in state, which the paper deemed extraordinary since it was only his second time to compete in the event.

But it didn’t impress his dad. Not even when KING 5 TV did a feature story on Micah. His dad didn’t watch when the piece aired.

He hadn’t run consistently for years, not from lack of desire but lack of time. Now, at least for two days, he had an abundance.

He threw on a Windbreaker and headed south toward Hug Point. He’d discovered the spot on the Internet the week before. The tide in front of the point never got low enough to allow people to walk around it on the sand. In the late 1800s settlers working their way up the coast solved the problem by blasting out a massive section of the rock that jutted into the ocean. They paved it with concrete, smooth enough for their wagons, and for the first time they could bring supplies as far north as Cannon Beach.

The road was still there and could be walked on. But only at low tide. The rest of the day waves crashed onto the ledge and caught uninformed tourists in a saltwater bath.

Micah wanted to see the pieces of concrete the sea hadn’t yet claimed, and according to the Internet, there were caves and a waterfall worth seeing just past the remnants of the old road.

In less than thirty minutes, he reached Hug Point State Park. He imagined kids playing in the waterfall or in the three caves during the summer. Perfect for families. Not today. It was a dreary April morning that had reserved the entire beach for Micah.

Or so he thought.

An unexpected burst from above sent rain pelting down so hard he headed for shelter in the biggest of the Hug Point caves.

The cave softened the crash of the surf, and the rain offered no noise to prove its existence. It felt like someone had muted the world. Micah saw no movement from his vantage point. He could be the only one left on Earth, and he wouldn’t know it.

The cave walls were almost black and slick with moisture. A crack ran along the ceiling, widening as it zigzagged toward the back wall. Nothing to worry about. It would take an earthquake to make this thing collapse. Micah took two steps toward the entrance.

Ten seconds later a man in a baseball hat, blue sweatshirt, and black workout shorts half ran, half walked toward him.

“Wow!” The man yanked off his St. Louis Rams cap and threw the rain from it onto the sand. “Makes me think of the ark.” He turned to Micah with a huge smile. “Rick.” The man extended his hand.

Micah fixed his gaze on Rick’s eyes. A shifting shade of sea green, they were intense and gentle at the same time. He was a bit taller than Micah, maybe six foot two, with thick hair the color of sandstone just starting to go gray. Micah liked him immediately.

He introduced himself and shook Rick’s hand. After they both commented on the forecast for the next few days, Micah asked Rick if he was a local.

“Lived here for a little over a year.”

“What do you do?”

“Oh, take walks on the beach, read good books, love watching old movies on rainy Saturday nights. And I still run or mountain bike three times a week, even at my age.” Rick stood up straight and pulled his sweatshirt tight against his stomach and smacked it twice with his palm. “Have to fight to keep this thing under control.”

Rick didn’t look like he was rolling in cash and couldn’t be much past fifty. “You’re retired?”

“No, still gotta work for another decade at least. I own the gas station in town. Mostly I bang away on the cars in back while the kids out front pump the gas. We’re one of the few stations that still actually work on folks’ cars. But I get out front every now and then to squeeze out a gallon or two of the octane. Can’t pump your own fuel in Oregon. Gives me a chance to see friends and meet the tourists.” He squinted at Micah. “You haven’t been gassing up in Seaside, have you?” His eyebrows furrowed in a deep, mock frown.

Micah chuckled. “Not anymore.” He glanced at Rick, then turned back to the sheets of rain sweeping over the waves. “Um, when I asked you what you did, I meant . . .” He stopped. It was obvious Rick knew exactly what he’d meant.

Rick dug a trench in the sand with his shoe. “Pretty sad that we define each other by what we do to put bread on the table rather than what makes us come alive.”

Come alive? What was that supposed to mean? It sounded like a line from one of those self-help gurus he was always being subjected to at national software conventions. Micah was silent as the rain continued to hammer the sand in front of the cave. Good thing Rick didn’t ask what made
him
come alive.

How would he answer the question? No idea. In that moment he realized something inside was very, very dead.

Rick broke the silence first. “So you here on vacation or a new resident?”

“Neither. I inherited a house. I’m kinda blown away. Nine thousand square feet, right on the ocean. I’m here to check it out, check out the area, then get the thing on the market. Should get some decent coin for it.”

“You don’t like it?”

“Love it.” Micah coughed. Where did
that
come from? He’d never even admitted it to himself.

“But you’re selling it?”

Micah wiped the combined sweat and rain off his forehead. “Probably going to. Haven’t made the final decision yet.”

“Ah.” Rick took off his Windbreaker and tied it around his waist. “It’s a wonderful house.”

“You’ve seen it?”

“If I’m thinking of the right one, I watched it being built. Just a few houses south of Arcadia Beach State Park, right? Finished a month or so ago?”

“That’s the one.”

Rick smiled without a hint of jealousy. Intriguing. Micah had gotten used to those around him smiling on the outside while the green monster of envy inside them snapped at his money and fame.

“I’ve looked forward to meeting the owner.” Rick smiled his massive grin again, his eyes almost disappearing. “Small-town ocean life agreeing with you so far?”

“It’s turned out better than I thought it would.” Micah rubbed his cold arms and gazed at the surf. “Even with this kind of weather.”

Rick nodded. “There’s a saying around here about the beach:

Where ocean breezes storm the soul,

Where love of strife grows quickly old,

Where the touch of God is beheld in power,

Where the spirit finds rest, in its darkest hour.”

Micah wasn’t into poetry, but that one struck a nerve. Rest. Simple word. So elusive. And his hours? They certainly seemed to be moving his spirit toward darkness, thanks to Uncle A.

Silence.

He looked at Rick out of the corner of his eye. There was an intimidating confidence about him, and Micah was never intimidated. He easily spotted people’s insecurities hidden under their posing and posturing. Most of the CEOs he dealt with, no matter their age, were scared little boys inside who covered themselves with a false confidence. Rick? His self-assurance was genuine.

Three minutes later the rain stopped. Rick shook Micah’s hand, said good-bye, and ambled down the beach. Micah walked five paces in the opposite direction before he turned back.

“Hey, Rick! I’ve got a car mystery for you. Mine gained sixteen thousand miles overnight. That possible without someone messing with it manually?”

Rick’s eyes shifted from playful to serious. Intense. A moment later they shifted back. “It’s rare, but yes, I’ve seen it happen.”

“What’s the cause? Bad odometer?”

“A much deeper issue than that.” Rick turned to walk away. “Maybe we’ll bump into each other again, and I’ll have a chance to explain it.”

CHAPTER 7

Micah arrived at RimSoft early Monday morning with Rick’s enigmatic response still swirling through his mind. Deeper issues? With a car? Explain it when? Maybe next weekend he’d try to find Rick’s station and get an answer.

Micah pushed the mystery out of his mind for the moment and booted up his computer. Getting to work at five o’clock meant he could get a majority of his work for the week finished before the inevitable fires started.

By the time Shannon arrived at eight, he’d plowed through all of his work slated for Monday and Tuesday.

He stretched, stood, and strolled over to his window to watch gray clouds roll in, painting a dreary ceiling for the ferryboats chugging across Puget Sound.

He returned to his desk. Next on his to-do list: Call Rafi Cushman about the phone system. After twenty seconds of listening to an instrumental song that should have been shot, Rafi came on the line.

“Hi, Rafi, Micah Taylor. Wanted to follow up on our talk at J. B. Olson’s party two weeks back.”

“Uh, I remember John having a party, but I don’t remember meeting you, Micah. I mean, I know who you are, of course, but—”

“We talked about both graduating from UDub the same year. And we both played Les Paul guitars back in high school.” Micah whistled inwardly. Did the guy want RimSoft’s business or not? He should have had Shannon call him. This was a waste of time.

“Wow, sorry, it’s just not clicking for me. You’re sure it was me?”

“You probably met a lot of people. I just wanted to see your proposal for a new phone system.”

“Sure, I’d love to develop a plan for you.”

Micah wrapped up the conversation and shook his head. Unbelievable. The guy couldn’t remember a conversation from two weeks ago that could result in a sizable account. Must have been drunk.

By the time six o’clock rolled around on Wednesday evening, the week was wrapped, delivered, and under control, so he left for the beach a day early.

||||||||

Thursday the sound of the surf woke him at seven-thirty. He rolled out of bed, grabbed coffee, and took a long look at the waves as they tossed milk-bubble foam up on the beach.

After firing up his laptop and checking RimSoft’s stock price, he pulled up his e-mail and breezed through fifty of them in half an hour. Then he answered Julie’s three e-mails. Done in two minutes. He probably should have taken more time, but he signed each one with “I love you.” He hoped that would be enough but knew it wasn’t.

After checking ESPN for anything interesting, Micah headed into town for groceries. He glanced at his fuel gage. Almost empty. Perfect excuse to stop by Rick’s gas station to pick up on last week’s conversation.

Rick’s Gas & Garage stood out in forest green letters on top of a building that looked its age, even with the fresh coat of paint, which tried in vain to hide decades of soggy Oregon Coast winters.

He got out of his BMW and watched a towheaded kid, who couldn’t have been over five foot two, pump his gas.

Micah wandered into the garage and found Rick underneath a late-model Lexus. Before he could say hello, Rick rolled out from under it and announced to the vehicle in his deep baritone, “Done with you forever.”

Micah started to reintroduce himself. “Hey, Rick, we met last—”

“Great surprise to see you, Micah!” Rick sat up with a grin. “What are you doing right now?”

“Right now?”

“Yep, right now.” Rick yanked a clean rag from his back pocket and wiped the oil from his hands.

“Grocery shopping.”

“Starting or finishing?”

“Finished.”

“Excellent.” Rick waved his thumb at the Lexus. “Now that I’ve got this emergency handled, I gotta make a quick trip into Seaside. Wanna come?”

“Well, I, uh . . .” Micah almost laughed.

“Sorry, gotta go now. You coming or not?”

Rick’s piercing eyes were hard to resist. Plus it was a chance to ask about deep odometer issues. “Why not.”

“Terrific.” Rick finished cleaning his hands and strode out of the garage, hardly looking as he tossed the rag twenty feet through the air into a large, rusty drum filled with oil-covered cloths. When he reached his ’89 Ford, he gestured toward it. “It’s not luxury like yours, but I guarantee it won’t break down.”

As they pulled out, Rick called to the gas-pumping kid. “Devin! You’ll let the Petersons know their Lexus is ready? And if Micah’s keys are in his ignition, could you move his car away from the pump?”

Devin flashed a grimy, grease-covered thumbs-up.

Micah opened his eyes wide.

Rick winked. “Don’t worry; he’ll clean up a bit first.”

As they pulled onto Highway 101 and headed north, Rick said, “So is romance a part of Micah Taylor’s life these days?”

Too big of a part. Too much complication. Too many questions with no answers. Why did Julie have to put the full-court press on him? He loved her. She loved him. Couldn’t it stay that simple for a while longer?

“Yeah.”

“Care to expand on that?”

“I don’t know.”

“Sorry if I hit a nerve.”

Micah rapped his knuckles on his knee. “Been going out for a year, been business partners for six. Great business partner.”

“You see a long-term future together?”

Wow. The guy didn’t mind going for the throat à la Barbara Walters. “Not sure. I was handed an ultimatum ten days ago. She wants a ring.”

“Do you want to give her one?”

“I love her.”

Rick adjusted his Rams hat. “That’s not what I asked.”

“I’m not sure.” Micah shifted in his seat. “That’s a lie. I am sure. I’m positive I’m not even close to ring-ready. I want to be. Part of me, at least.” Micah loosened his seat belt. “I should be ready. But the idea of getting engaged makes me . . .”

Micah stared at the yellow lines in the middle of the road as they zipped under Rick’s truck. Strange. He barely knew the guy, yet here he was spilling out his Julie problems all over the front seat of Rick’s Ford.

“‘I feel as if I’m in a room screaming and no one even looks up,’” Rick said.

“What?”

“It’s from
Titanic.
Kate Winslet describing her life before Leonardo DiCaprio frees her. You feel like Rose?”

Micah turned toward the passenger-side window. He wasn’t ready to spill everything. He turned back to Rick. “Pretty good quote. Where’d you come up with it?”

“I’m a bit of a movie-trivia buff.”

“Really. Want to take me on?”

“Absolutely.” Rick grinned. “Ready?”

“What decade should we focus on?”

“How ’bout the one you were born in?”

“Fine.” Micah nodded.

“Top-grossing movie of ’86, and you’re only getting one clue.”

“I don’t need one,
Maverick.
”

Rick burst out laughing. “Impressive! All right, name two movies Tom Cruise made before
Top Gun
sent him into the stardom stratosphere.”

Micah tapped his forehead in mock concentration. “Wait, wait. How ’bout
The Outsiders
and
All the Right Moves.
”

“Not bad.”

Micah volleyed back. “Staying on the same path, name at least three actors or actresses in
The Outsiders
who went on to stardom other than Cruise.”

Rick turned left into the parking lot of an auto parts store that looked even older than his garage. He hopped out with a quickness belying his age and linebacker-sized body. “I’ll just take five minutes to get these parts.”

“Whoa. Sorry, Charlie, no tuna for you till you answer the question.”

“No time-out to pick up the parts?”

“No way. You might pull up IMDb on the computer in there,” Micah said.

“IMDb?”

“The Internet Movie Database. Playing dumb doesn’t work with me.”

Rick laughed, propped his elbows up on the open window, and stuck his head inside. “Okay. Would you count Diane Lane, Patrick Swayze, Rob Lowe, and Matt Dillon as having had a little time in the sun?”

Rick slid into the parts store and Micah shook his head. He was drawn to the man, as if he were at the end of a bungee cord stretched to its limit. Confident. Well spoken. Intelligent. Why did this guy run a gas station in a tourist town? Every ounce of him spoke of more than oil changes and alternators. Micah suspected his list of accomplishments went beyond working on cars. And yet as much as he searched, he couldn’t find an ego hinting at hidden fortune or fame.

As they pulled onto Highway 101 and headed back toward Cannon Beach, Micah said, “You want to tell me about the deeper issues of life surrounding odometers that gain sixteen thousand miles?”

Rick stayed silent for more than a minute before he spoke. “In every moment we make choices. Those choices ripple out and affect every area of our lives. A butterfly flapping its wings can cause a hurricane thousands of miles away.”

“I understand the Butterfly Effect, but, uh, what are you talking about? Isn’t this about my car?”

“Not really.”

“Okay.” Micah stared at Rick. “What is it about?”

“Your life.”

“What about my life?”

“Choices.” Rick kept his eyes on the road. This time the silence was only ten seconds. “More to come later. Give it time, okay?”

It wasn’t a question; it was a command.

The guy was magnetic, but Micah couldn’t get rid of a wariness that flitted around the corners of his mind. More a feeling than anything concrete. Until now. Talk about cryptic. Something about the man made Micah feel like he was immersed in an episode of
LOST.

The rest of the way back they talked sports, local politics, and Cannon Beach history. When they shook hands good-bye, Rick said, “Can we connect up again soon?”

“Sure. I’d like that.”

“Me, too.” Rick clapped Micah on the back and strode into his gas station. “Don’t worry.” He turned back to Micah. “Answers will come.”

||||||||

Back at the house Micah lost himself in
The Fellowship of the Ring
so thoroughly that by the time he stopped reading, the sky had turned from misty gray to the sooty blackness of a foggy April night. He headed toward the master bedroom more relaxed than he’d been in years. Despite the unanswered questions and being within miles of where his heart had shattered, he felt at peace.

He didn’t wake on Saturday morning till nine. When was the last time he’d done that? Too long. His RimSoft life never allowed it. But didn’t he own the company? He could choose to get off the hamster wheel. Was he running RimSoft, or was RimSoft running him?

||||||||

Taking the next three Fridays off turned into taking the next six Fridays off, which followed a consistent routine. He worked ten to twelve hours a day Monday through Thursday, made a late-evening drive down to Cannon Beach that night, then spent the weekend exploring the area, running, and having breakfast on Saturdays with Rick at Morris’ Fireside.

Sunday afternoons he filled up at Rick’s before heading back to Seattle. His quick stop to refuel always turned into an hour plus of conversation about the ups and downs of RimSoft, his relationship with Julie, and the lure of Cannon Beach. Rick always listened with genuine interest, quick to clarify a comment to make sure he understood the situation, slow to give advice unless Micah pressed him.

After Micah’s final, “I gotta go,” they each tried to stump the other with a new movie-trivia question. It never worked, but they promised next week they’d find one that would.

Rick had moved into a position in Micah’s life that few people occupied: friendship with no strings attached. It felt wonderful. Pursuit not because of his money or fame but simply because Rick enjoyed knowing him.

It only bothered Micah slightly that Rick somehow seemed to know him much more thoroughly than Micah knew Rick.

||||||||

During the week at RimSoft, work was packed with meetings on the new beta version of their flagship product. It was a roller-coaster time, not knowing if the testers, and by association the critics, would go into rapture over the new software or try to bury it, and Micah loved every second of the ride. It was RimSoft’s Super Bowl, and it never failed to give him a rush.

Julie and he had dinner on Tuesday or Wednesday night each week, but her frustration at his new weekend life grew.

The Wednesday after his sixth weekend in Cannon Beach, they went to Palisade, the lights of West Seattle blinking at them from across Puget Sound. As soon as they were seated, Julie folded her arms and tossed Micah on the grill.

“So what’s your answer?” she asked.

“About?”

“Don’t insult me.” Julie smacked her menu against the table. “You said this dinner was about our future.”

“Can’t we order first?” Micah studied the restaurant’s specials.

“No.” She waited till he looked up. “I asked for an answer in four weeks. It’s been six. That place has you hook, line, and heart.”

“So does Seattle.”

“Seattle includes me. Cannon Beach doesn’t.”

“It could.” Micah slid his finger down the side of his water glass, then wiped the moisture on the tablecloth.

“Do you love me, Micah?”

“Yes.”

“Do you want to marry me?”