The Rain Began to Fall (3 page)

“Oh yeah?” he
replied, with an exaggerated smirk. “Well, I may not drop back early and give
you a chance next time either.” Her mouth fell comically open.
The arrogance
!

“Are you trying to
say you
played
with me?” she replied, more than a little irritated. “You
were doing all you could, mister!” She folded her arms in defiance.

I would love to
play with you
, he thought, but said:

“Well, we both know
who put it in park first.” He took his foot down off the bench and turned
toward her directly, smiling. She stared at him, fuming.
He’s just a little
too cocky!
 But he continued smiling warmly at her, and as she stared
into his eyes, into his brutally handsome face, she couldn’t maintain her
irritation. The tightness left her, and she unfolded her arms.
Leigh, you’re
pathetic.

“You’re
so...
truly...
beautiful,” he said sincerely, and as the words rolled off his
tempting lips, she felt the compliment plunge softly into her heart, an arrow
from a hidden cupid. She blushed and dropped her eyes.

“Thank you,” she
replied in a whispery voice. She realized she was doing nothing to stop the
forward progress of her feelings or his, and now was the time to tell him she
was happily engaged, that she wasn’t sure what he wanted or expected of her,
but she wasn’t available. She
was
attracted to him - what red blooded
woman
wouldn’t
be? - , she couldn’t deny that; but it was purely
physical at this point, nothing more, no way it could be.
What about the way
you felt when he said you were beautiful
? a voice spoke up in her mind.
What
about that first day during orientation?
What about that enchanted
moment this morning?

But she repressed
those thoughts. She couldn’t allow her imagination run wild. She had to tell
him that she was soon to be married, that he shouldn’t be here, she shouldn’t
have raced him this morning, and they shouldn’t be having this conversation! So
she looked straight at him, drew her breath and said:

“Do you want the
other half of this sandwich?”

“Thought you’d
never ask,” he replied, grinning. He reached over the table and took the
sandwich in hand, taking a big bite.

“Mmm,” he grunted.
“Good. Where did this come from?”

“Pernelis,” she
responded, watching him chew his food. He swallowed and took another large
bite.
He was hungry, and seeing his satisfaction, she was glad she had
offered to share her lunch with him
. He has good, strong teeth,
she
observed. She was stone still, staring and helplessly admiring him. Kyle,
noticing, stopped chewing in mid- bite and looked at her, smiling. She quickly
dropped her eyes, and he resumed working on the sandwich.
Why couldn’t I run
him off
? she wondered, as she picked up her sandwich.
What’s wrong with
me
? After three bites, he was thirsty. He pointed at her bottled water.

“Do you mind?” he
asked.

She looked up
sharply.
Is he really asking me to share my drink with him? That’s just a
tad intimate for near strangers
! She had instinctively taken the bottle
protectively in hand as soon as he had asked. But as she paused in her
response, he reached across the table and put his hand softly on hers, around
the bottle’s neck.

“It’s okay,” he
said soothingly. She still held the bottle firmly, staring at him wide-eyed,
saying nothing. A passing breeze blew a tuft of hair across his forehead. His
eyes sparkled, and she felt the warmth of his touch. Her heart was galloping,
and her face felt flush.
This is definitely not okay,
she thought. But
her grip loosened ever so slightly as he gently tugged, and she realized she
wouldn’t stop him,
couldn’t
stop him, no matter how unusual this was.
Still staring into his smiling, assuring eyes, she released her hold, the
bottle slipping out of her hand and into his, and Kyle, unscrewing the cap,
turned the bottle up and drank deeply, never taking his eyes off of hers.
Speechless and rocked to the core, she was suddenly sure that there was more
than just the bottle slipping into his hands; he was reaching for
her
,
aiming to take...

No
!
she
shouted in her mind.
No, no, no
!

“I’ve got to go,”
she said abruptly, standing up quickly. “I’ve got a lot of work to do, you
know?”

“Hey, you’re a
poet, did ja know it?” he quipped. He pointed at her uneaten portion. “You’ve
got a lot of sandwich left here.” She had barely touched it, but she couldn’t
have eaten more if she wanted to. Her appetite had sailed away.

“You can have it
if it you want it,” she offered.
We’ve shared a drink. What’s the big deal?
She slung her pocketbook over her shoulder, took a deep breath and let it out.
She stared at him for a moment, and shook her head. “Good luck on the job,
Kyle.”

She walked away
quickly before he could respond. He watched her go, with a grin and a gleam in
his eyes.

“You can run,” he
said softly, picking up the sandwich, “but you can’t hide.”

As she walked
across the yard, she looked around and saw a few of the employees staring at
her. She was sure there would be some rumors spread around about their eating
together, but she decided that would be okay.

Just today. Just
for today.

Bob Dylan sounded
out of the four way, six by nine speakers mounted to the interior of Kyle’s
vintage Nova, and the volume was turned up full blast…
How does it feel? To
be on your own
?
...
He drummed his fingers in rhythm on the steering wheel and stepped on the gas.
The engine roared in response, and the car shimmered and sparkled in the clear
evening sunlight as it rolled down the back streets. He had washed and waxed
it, with great care, on Saturday, and now it was Monday evening. After a hard
day’s work at Falstead, he had picked up his mail at the post office and the
news he had received was not good. He wasn’t in the best of moods.

He was now just a
few blocks from his apartment, driving fast through the suburbs. Quaint, older
homes lined either side, and big oaks extended their limbs out over the road,
blocking the evening sun, creating a tunnel of shade on the street. Now one
block from his apartment, he turned onto Pine Avenue and his rear tires
squealed on the pavement. He gunned it immediately, and felt the exhilaration
that always came with speed and power. Driving his beloved Nova, fast in
particular, was his favorite past time when he had thinking to do, and right
now his mind was in turmoil.
Why
? His frustration was growing deeper
with every passing moment.
They hold all the cards.
They say what’s
good and what’s not, and they’ve been saying I’m not good enough for too long
now
. A familiar voice, one that made itself heard more and more lately,
spoke up in his head
: What does that tell you, Kyle ole’ buddy
?
Maybe
you oughta start thinking about hanging it up,
huh
?

He now whipped
sharply into the driveway, threw it in park, and killed the engine. The big
motor ticked in the cool of the evening, as the sun began to drop behind the
mountain. …
With no place to call home
?
Like a rolling stone
?…
Dylan inquired. He ejected the CD and tossed it
carelessly on the passenger seat.

“
My
thoughts exactly Robert,” he said, and then climbed out of the car. He unlocked
the apartment door and went inside, slamming it hard behind him. He tossed his
keys on the kitchen table, then removed his jacket and slung it over a chair.
The apartment was a small, one bedroom efficiency, sparsely furnished; being
single, foot loose and fancy free, he didn’t require much in the way of living
accommodations. He dug into a pocket of his leather jacket and produced a fresh
pack of Lucky Strikes he had picked up on the way home. He had never been a
heavy smoker, but he had quit altogether six months ago. This was a little fall
off the wagon, but current circumstances screamed for a smoke. He lit one and
pulled deeply, then dropped heavily into a chair. His anger was growing by the
minute, and his mind was pounding with the merciless thought that he was a
fool, had been all along. He took the object of his dreams and labors into his
hands, looked hard at it, and in that moment it became the object of his
greatest misery. He stood suddenly, flicked his Zippo, and lit fire to the
papers. The flame licked hungrily up the outer edges -
burn
,
baby
,
burn -
, and he came dangerously close to letting them do their job. But
then he came as suddenly back to his senses, and began beating out the flames,
frantically smacking the stack of papers on the table. He succeeded in
extinguishing the fire, and then he stood very still, staring at what he had
done.

What he held in
his hands was a slightly charred manuscript. The casual observer would not
remotely imagine that hidden beneath Kyle’s fast car, rebel image was an
ambitious, prolific writer. He had, to date, written over thirty short stories
and completed five novels. He had submitted his first completed manuscript to
as many editors as he could find, those accepting first time authors, shortly
after his eighteenth birthday. There were no positive responses. Undaunted, he
continued writing and submitting in the ensuing years, and although he had
received some encouraging advice along the way, he had yet to have his work
accepted. He did find an agent out of New York in the past year named Gary
Pierce; but so far nothing had come of the relationship. The novel he had
submitted this time was his latest:
Terrence Tried.

It was about a
well- to- do high school jock that had been terribly arrogant and selfish
before going blind due to a rare disease. More disaster followed when his
parents died in an automobile accident, and it was discovered his father had
milked millions from the insurance company in which he had held a high level
position. Broke and handicapped, his friends deserted him, and the many whom he
had disparaged gloated at his fall. His subsequent struggle led Terrence to the
bottom, but he came through on the other side with, as he said, “a better
vision of the world as a blind man than I ever had with my sight.”

What a joke
!
he now thought bitterly. The latest rejection letter for this novel had come in
the mail today, forwarded by Gary. It was from a mid-sized publishing house,
and it read, in part:

…
unfortunately,
we do not find this work to be a fit with regard to our interests. Thank you
for the submission
.

His agent included
his own scribbled note:

Kyle, this
one’s dead, I’m afraid. Send something else when you have it.

He uttered a loud
sigh, plopped down into a chair, and tossed the manuscript on the table,
burying his face in his hands. He was alone in a new town, without family or
friends, his heart nicked and bleeding once again by the jagged edge of his
shattered hopes.

Born and raised in
Boonesville, Tennessee, he had grown restless living in a small town with big
dreams, so he had packed up and moved on to North Carolina and Charlotte. As a
child, he had come here with his family on a couple of occasions to visit an
obscure Aunt on his mother’s side. She passed away in his twelfth year, and although
the trips ceased, he had remembered the area fondly.

He had arrived
with enough money saved to rent a one room apartment and explore the city for
awhile, finding quiet places to write and take in the scenery. When his savings
dwindled to a certain point, he landed the job with Falstead. It wasn’t easy
work, but it kept the money coming in.

Kyle kept his
writing close to the vest, and had shared his literary ambition as little as he
shared his heart over the years. But Rob Fenton, his best friend and confidante
since childhood, had been there from the beginning. He had read everything Kyle
had written, believed with all of his heart that his friend was a talented
writer, and urged him to not give up in the face of all the rejections. Kyle
would certainly have laid the sword down on a few occasions if not for his
friend’s unwavering support.

Leaving
Boonesville meant leaving his friend behind; but Rob had been spending a lot of
time with his girlfriend Carla over the past year, even recently mentioning the
possibility of marriage. Kyle realized times were changing from those wild days
when they had built up their hot-rod cars and raced them down on Sheldon road
on Saturday nights.

He stood up,
grabbed his jacket and walked outside. It was 6:00 pm and the sun was sinking
fast. The evening air was chilly; temperatures were still cool at night.

He popped the
lever and raised the heavy hood on the classic sports car to check the oil
level. As he pulled the dipstick, his thoughts drifted to Leigh, something that
had been happening quite a lot since he’d met her. She was amazingly beautiful
by anyone’s standards. And though she obviously came from a life of privilege,
he felt they shared a kindred spirit. He had noticed her engagement ring from
the get go; how could he have missed it? But the way she had reacted to
him during orientation, that look in her eyes, told him she wasn’t happy as she
could be. He wiped the dipstick clean and replaced it, closing the hood. He ran
his fingers over the Chevy II emblem on the front of his car, as the soft
orange light of the setting sun delicately bathed his handsome face. He then
turned and walked toward his apartment, realizing with increasing clarity that,
for the first time in his life, he was falling in love.