State of Grace (37 page)

                
Wow. Talk about confessions . . .

                
Tommy, I appreciate you telling me how you feel. And I'm sorry that I can't say that I feel the same way. I guess what I would like is to just continue e-mailing and getting to know each other—at least for now. Is that okay with you? Let's just be friends and see where it goes. I know that if anyone can understand why I feel this way, it's you.

                
Birdie

His response came within minutes.

         
Birdie,

                
I'm glad you wrote back. I was worried I had said too much. I've been hovering around my computer since I hit the Send button.

                
OF COURSE it's fine for us to take this slowly and get to know each other. I want you to be comfortable with this and with me. I just had perhaps a little too much to drink while we were e-mailing and let my emotions get the better of me. Still, I'm relieved to have put that out there. And I thought it was only fair to let you know that my motives
for continued correspondence might not be all that they appeared to be.

                
As I said before, I feel like we have such a connection—that we could be good for each other. I meant what I said. I will give you all the time you need. For now, the ball is in your court. I'll let you set the pace.

                
I'm glad your electricity is back on.

                             
Tommy

And that's how our romance began.

We continued to correspond, but it was different than before. It was more intimate and even as I struggled to trust him, I found myself constantly holding back. Often, we e-mailed late into the night. No longer did I need to paint to be able to sleep. Now, I had Tommy. It seemed like we discussed everything under the sun—our likes and dislikes, our favorite foods, how we reacted to important events in our lives. I told him about my college experience and how Adelle's rape had an impact on me. He told me about building his company and how the murder of his fiancée several years earlier almost derailed his life.

                
It shattered me. I lost interest in work, in life, in . . . everything. To lose her that way was too much—especially after what happened with Grace.

When he explained what he meant, I could see why.

                
Angie was walking home one night from her job bartending. She lived just a few blocks away. She was almost home when someone apparently tried to rob her. She made pretty good tips at the bar and all I can figure is that they had been watching her. Knowing Angie, she refused to give him her money and he stabbed her, took her purse, and then ran off. She bled to death on the sidewalk. I got worried when she didn't call me to tell me she was home all right. By the time I got to her apartment, the police were down the street working the
crime scene. They never caught the guy.

                
I was devastated. To lose someone you love to such a senseless crime is horrible. And then to be unable to catch the bastard who did it? But then, I don't have to tell you that, do I? You know better than anyone the impact that can have on a person.

Within a month, though I hadn't admitted it to
him
, I had begun to admit to myself that perhaps my feelings were more than friendship as well. He had sent me a picture of himself. Remarkably, he looked much the same as he had when he was seventeen, although older and broader-shouldered. The picture had been taken at sea. Tommy was seated at the back of a sailboat with his hand on the rudder. He was smiling and squinting into the sunlight. Lines crinkled along the sides of his eyes. His skin was tanned and he looked fit. His tousled dark hair was longer than I remembered . . . and curlier. He had become a handsome man, and I told him so.

                
Thanks, he wrote. But you're seeing what you want to see. I'm average on my best days. I know you said you don't have any pictures that you can e-mail, but can you at least describe yourself to me?

I hesitated—not because I didn't want to tell him what I looked like, but because I had no idea how to describe myself. I went to the mirror and stared at myself, trying to see my face and body like a stranger would. Tall, slender, angular—that was all true. My face was nondescript. I had a decent, slightly wind-chapped complexion. Long, wavy sandy-blond hair in need of a trim. Nice, straight teeth thanks to four years of orthodontics. All in all, I surmised, an average, though not unattractive, woman.

I sat back down at my computer and thought about how to describe what I had seen in the mirror.

                
I'm not sure how to describe myself. I'm five-eight and about 140 pounds. I'm thin but not skinny. My hair is kind of a dirty
blond and it's long. I haven't had a haircut in years. A lot of the time I keep it in a ponytail or just twisted into a bun. I used to have bangs, but I have sort of let those grow out. I'm fairly light-skinned and I usually don't wear makeup since it's just me and Toby. All in all, I would say I look like an older, paler, much more tired version of what I looked like as a kid.

His response was kind.

                
You sound as beautiful outside as I know you to be inside.

I found myself glowing with pleasure. “He thinks I'm beautiful,” I told Toby as I twirled around the living room. “What do you know?”

I can admit that I got caught up in the feeling of falling in love—the emotions of it. The tingle of excitement at the thought of him. The anticipation of his e-mails. I was also in love with the realization that I could be like everyone else—that I was able to fall in love. It was an exciting first for me.

Eventually, I shared my revelation with Tommy. He had described a run through Central Park with such detail and passion that I felt as if I had been there with him.

         
Tommy—

                
You write with such wonderfully vivid detail. I love reading your words. It made me feel like I was on that run with you. Your ability to so fully describe scenes and people and experiences is one of the many things I love most about you. Thank you for sharing your world with me.

His reply was teasing.

                
So, you love me, huh? 'Bout time.

My reply was far less playful.

                
That's not what I meant.

He responded immediately.

                
Birdie, I was just teasing you. But, what would you say if I told you that I loved
you
?

I blinked in disbelief. He had said it. He said he loved me. My stomach knotted and my breath quickened. It was just like the movies. But instead of watching someone else have their soul mate profess love, it was happening to me. It was my turn. Before I could lose my nerve, I began to type.

                
I guess that I would say that I
. . . I hesitated and then typed the words . . .
love you, too. You've become my dearest friend and my feelings for you are . . . more than just friendship. I don't know how to describe it. It's such a new and amazing feeling. I'm just not sure how to deal with it.

I waited anxiously for his reply. I didn't have to wait long.

                
Seriously? Does this mean what I think it means? I can't believe it!! I love you, too. You know, if you called me on the phone, I could tell you in person. No pressure. Just a thought.

He had suggested talking on the phone before, but I had resisted. It would have made it seem too real. But now, having just confessed how I felt, it felt silly to avoid talking to him. If you're in love with someone, it's only natural to talk to them on the phone. Rather than respond to his e-mail, I stood up and walked around the room. Toby watched from the couch.

“This is it, Toby,” I said as I walked purposefully into the kitchen, picked up the receiver, and, with shaky fingers, dialed Tommy's number. Before it rang, though, I hung up.

“I need to think about what I want to say,” I said to myself. “I need to practice.” I walked around the room and tried different greetings. “Hi . . . Hello . . . Hi, it's Birdie . . . Bet you're surprised to hear from me . . .”

I paced the length of the kitchen and then went into the living room. Toby again looked up.

“Hello,” I said in a lower-than-usual voice that could possibly be construed as . . . sexy? “Is Tommy there? . . . May I speak to Thomas, please . . . Hi.”

Practicing wouldn't help, I realized. I just needed to do it. Once more, I dialed his number. The phone rang. The pounding in my head was deafening. My heart beat in my throat. I waited through the rings. After the fifth ring, he picked up.

“Hello?” The voice was smooth and deep.

I froze. My words lodged in my throat. My breath came in short pants.

“Hello?” he said again, this time, much more of a question.

“Hi, it's me,” I said in a rush. My voice was anything but calm or sultry. It was slightly shrill to my own ears. “It's Birdie. Holloway. From Colorado. We've been e-mailing.”

I rolled my eyes at my stupidity.

“Oh my god. Hi. I'm so glad you called. I . . . I didn't expect you to so soon, but I'm so glad you did. I . . . Hi. How are you?”

“I'm well,” I said. “I just decided to pick up the phone and call. I hope that's okay. Are you busy? Can you talk right now?”

He laughed. “Birdie, I am never too busy for you. I'm so glad you called. And, before we talk any more, I just want to tell you how much your e-mail earlier meant to me. I love you and I'm so excited to know that you feel the same way.”

“I love you, too,” I said shakily.

“Well, now that that's out of the way,” he said smoothly. “How are you? What are you doing right now?”

And so we began to talk. And talk. And talk. It was as if we had known each other forever. We talked about everything with an intimacy that never ceased to amaze me. We also began to talk about the future and how and when we should meet. It became clear that we both were
anxious to see each other in person. Our conversations had evolved from e-mail almost exclusively to the telephone.

“How about Valentine's Day?” he asked one night. I was lying in front of the fire, the phone cradled against my ear. Toby lay curled up against my side. “You could come to New York and we could go out for a romantic dinner—go to the top of the Empire State Building.”

“God, that would be amazing,” I said wistfully. “But I don't like crowds and leaving the cabin, even for you, would be hard. I mean, I'm just not sure I can do it. And it's a little soon, don't you think?”

He was silent for several seconds. We had talked about my reclusiveness and my phobias. He understood and assured me that it wasn't a deterrent.

“Okay,” he said finally. “How about I come to you? I could come to La Veta, I could stay at one of the hotels, and we could spend the weekend together.”

I considered his words and the prospect of meeting him suddenly seemed very real. The thought was simultaneously exhilarating and terrifying.

“Wow,” I said softly.

“What?” he asked in alarm. “Are you okay? What's wrong?”

“It just occurred to me that we're actually going to meet face to face,” I admitted. “And I'm a little scared. Not of you, but just of the reality of you. What if you don't like me or don't find me attractive?”

He laughed warmly. “Not a chance. You are beautiful to me. I am in love with who you are on the inside, not your exterior. I'm in love with your complexity and your fears and your vulnerability. Seeing you in person is only going to intensify that.”

I smiled at his words. “How is it that you're so perfect?”

“I understand you because we are the same person.” He paused. “How's that for romantic?”

“Ummm,” I said, stretching languorously. “That's nice.”

“So?” he persisted. “What about it? Your place? A long weekend?”

I was silent.

“Say yes.”

I stared at the fire, imagining the two of us sipping wine and toasting each other. I tentatively left myself open for Grace's voice
warning me to stay away, but heard nothing. I could still feel her there, deep in my brain, watching. But she no longer commented or gave any indication of what she thought.

“Come on, Birdie,” Tommy persisted, charmingly. “Say yes.”

I smiled. “Yes,” I said, finally. “Let's figure out when you can come for a long weekend.”

“Well, it's a done deal,” Tommy said the next night. “I just got a reservation at that little bed and breakfast . . . the Ranch House Inn. I got the room with the cowboy motif.”

My heart beat faster at the thought of him being so near—of actually speaking to him in person. “But we didn't talk about dates.”

“We didn't, but I didn't schedule the reservation until April,” he said. “That gives us a couple more months to get to know each other better.”

“April,” I said numbly.

“Yes. April. Birdie, if I had waited for you, it would have been next year. You're worth it, but I don't want to wait that long. And deep down, I don't think you do either.”

“But—”