We Will Always Have the Closet (7 page)

***

Petra

The sun was shining, the clouds were making themselves scarce, and the air had that feeling of crispness that only the northwest could provide—a mixture of warmth all wrapped up in a pleasantly chilly shell. Petra sat on the wooden bench in her garden overlooking the water, admiring the quality of light that such weather afforded. The giant evergreens that covered almost every inch of the hills around her house looked greener today; even the leaves of her dormant flowers took on a sheen and hue that was rarely seen. Maybe a fairy had flown over the land and sprinkled it with magic powder, endowing everything visible with a new dimension. Or maybe human eyes were the target of such magic and they could now see things and colors in a way that, by comparison, made the usual hues seem drab and ordinary.

With a great big sigh, Petra closed her eyes and inhaled the crisp, slightly briny air before returning to her novel. What a rare pleasure for her to sit there, comfortable in her big fluffy warm sweater, enjoying a hot cup of coffee and reading a wonderful book. These days she seemed to have less and less time to do what she wanted, to indulge in the small pleasures that made life worth living. Her job at the magazine kept her extremely busy, both in the office and at home. Of course, she shouldn’t complain. At a time when people in the print business were losing their jobs, her magazine seemed to have been spared—at least for now. In fact, it seemed to thrive both in print form and as an e-publication. The only downside was that every writer for the magazine had new responsibilities added to their job, and what used to be pleasurable was quickly becoming more of a chore. The literary articles she used to write for the magazine were now supplemented by a blog and an “entertainment review,” two things that were fun at times, but also quickly became tedious and void of meaning.

Besides her job at the magazine, Petra refused to give up on her volunteering both at St. Vincent’s and as an art docent at local museums and area schools. In the end, she barely had time to do her own errands or take care of herself.

“Saint Petra,” Alina called her teasingly. “You’ve got to make more time for yourself, woman,” she told her. “You need to date and have fun. You’re only thirty-five years old, for God’s sake, and it’s almost like you gave up on life.” She really hadn’t given up; she was only on pause, trying to recuperate from the major disappointment and shock of discovering that the love of her life was a womanizer who cared more about his, admittedly exquisite, art collection than his then wife. She would date again someday, but for now she was content to fill her hours and days with things and activities that didn’t necessarily concern her directly, and consequently could not possibly disappoint her in any way.

There she sat, enjoying the breeze and the faint warmth of the sun, devouring each word from the novel as real food for the soul and just…being. The hours passed without her acknowledgment and her only reminder of the passage of time was the cold coffee that she distractedly gulped down with a frown. “Yikes,” she exclaimed, disgusted. “How long have I been out here?”

“Talking to yourself again, I see,” she heard a familiar voice say behind her. Sam walked around the bench and came to stand before her with that sarcastic smile of his. “You really should try getting some friends. That way you don’t have to talk to yourself anymore. Try it, it’s awesome.”

Unwittingly, she stuck her tongue out at him and immediately felt like a little third grader fighting with another child. “Sorry,” she said with an apologetic shrug, “That was childish and uncalled for. But you are very annoying, though.”

“I have been told that before,” he admitted, gesturing to the space next to her. She waved her permission and he sat down—way too close to her, she thought. “So what are you reading that’s so interesting?”

“
The Distant Hours
by Kate Morton,” she replied, lifting up the book so he could have a look. “Have you read it?” He shook his head in reply. “You should try it. It is amazing.”

Sam looked at her, amused by her vehemence. “What’s it about?” he asked. She lifted her eyebrow quizzically, but he seemed to be sincere about his interest. “Really. I want to know.”

Petra embarked in an excited narrative about the book without taking time to breathe. Once in a while, she had to stop and take a deep breath, much to his amusement. “Am I spoiling it for you?”

“Absolutely not.” He assured her with that amazing smile. “I’m having a blast listening to you. Your face just lights up when you’re retelling an exciting part. I think this is better than reading the book. It’s like watching a great movie where all the characters are played by this amazingly beautiful woman.” She blushed. Sam could be so sweet, which was terribly vexing when she was trying so hard not to like him. “Go on.”

The next half hour or so was spent in friendly companionship, Petra telling the story, Sam listening attentively and studying her all the while. When excited about a part of the story, her hands and the rest of her body became animated just as her voice rose an octave to match the thrill of the scene. Sam seemed perfectly content and entertained sitting by her, listening and watching her lively retelling of the story. Time flew by and soon they both noticed that the sun had weakened and that the air was quickly cooling down to temperatures that required further layers of clothing. Petra shivered.

“Have my coat,” Sam immediately said, shaking out of his jacket. “I’m used to cold. I grew up in Canada.”

Petra accepted his offer and slid her small arms into his huge sleeves with gratitude. “Canada? Really?” Her face betrayed her surprise. She would have never guessed. He seemed so American. “Where is your
hoose,
then? I haven’t noticed an accent at all.”

He laughed. “I am American, but I lived in Canada on and off for a great part of my life,” he explained, still laughing. “My parents owned another business in Toronto, so we divided our time between Seattle and Toronto. Never got the chance to pick up the dialect, I guess. Where did you grow up?”

“Mostly here in Seattle,” she said, wrapping herself in his jacket. It was nice and warm and smelled of him, which made her feel all soft and gooey inside. “My parents traveled a bit when I was younger, but rather on vacations. I have been in this beautiful city for a very long time.”

“At least for a hundred years by the looks of you,” he joked with a little sarcastic smirk. “You are ancient.”

“Don’t push it,” she warned with a wag of a finger. “You should never make jokes about the age of a woman.”

Sam raised his hands up in surrender. “I stand corrected,” he said. “You don’t look a day older than sixty.” At that, her hand shot out from underneath his jacket and hit him hard and swiftly on the chest. “Ouch! That’s a manly punch you have there, girly.”

“First you call me old and now you’re calling me a man?” she exclaimed, half-jokingly. “What next?”

“I was going to ask you if you would like to go for a walk along the waterfront,” he replied. “But now I wonder if that wouldn’t be too much for your aged legs.”

Her hands went up again in a threat. “Watch it! My legs are perfectly capable of keeping up with yours.”

“Well, let’s go then,” he said, standing up suddenly and offering her his hand. “It’s getting too cold to be still.”

Puget Sound was inundated in what daylight was left and sparkled like a jewel under a light. The view of the quiet waters soothed her tired eyes and the small green islands, sprinkled here and there, always fueled her insatiable imagination. When she was a child she used to think there were fairies living in those islands and she had made plans with some of her more willing friends to one day borrow a boat and row her way to one of them and see it with her own eyes. After her parents died in that terrible accident, she had wanted to go there even more, for in her youthful heart she believed the fairies to have the powers to bring them back. Of course, she had never been able to go to any of the islands or get her parents back. However, even as an adult, her imagination was constantly making up fantastic stories to explain the existence of such luxuriant tiny pieces of land sitting there, isolated from the rest of the world. She knew fishermen used them as a refuge and lovers often found them a great hideaway for an afternoon or even an overnight tryst. Petra liked what her mind came up with much better.

The sun was not visible anymore and the wind had picked up a bit since they had left the bench. “Do you want to go to the house and have a cup of something warm?” she asked.
Am I out of my mind?
How smart was it to allow herself to be alone with him at home? Another shiver along her spine from the chill that was assailing her even from underneath his warm jacket told her that, wise or not, it was going to happen. “Let’s go. It’s getting really cold.”

Her house was warm and welcoming. They shed their coats by the door and Sam settled himself on the living room couch next to a huge window facing the Sound. “Wow, this is amazing,” he exclaimed in awe. “How did you manage to land yourself this place?”

Petra had gone to the adjacent small kitchen and was busy making coffee. “It belonged to my parents,” she said, opening and closing cabinets. “This was their weekend cottage. They loved the city, but they needed some time away to recharge.”

“I know how that goes,” he confessed. “I live smack in the middle of Seattle and I often have to take myself out somewhere quieter. Where are your parents?”

Petra swallowed hard. Even after all these years—going on seventeen—she still found it hard to talk about. “They passed away many years ago,” she said, trying to hide the catch in her voice.

Sam snapped his head in her direction. “I am so sorry,” he said. “Sorry I brought it up.”

Petra shook her head in denial. “No, it was a lifetime ago and…after all, what can you do about it? It happened and there is nothing else we can say…” her voice trailed as she busied herself with the collecting of cups and spoons.

Sam stood up and came to help her. “I love your house. Your parents had impeccable taste.” Somehow, that was the nicest thing anybody had ever said to her. Her heart melted a little more. “Is that coffee? It’s as thick as mud.”

And he was back! She smiled, realizing he was trying to distract her from her grief. She handed him the steaming French press pot and grabbed the small tray with the cups and other accoutrements, moving them all into the living room.

The coffee was very strong, just like she liked it—and in spite of what he may say, she could tell Sam did too—and the conversation flowed comfortably and enjoyably. It was dark outside when Sam finally stood up and announced his imminent departure. Petra felt almost despondent at the knowledge he would be leaving her and hated herself immediately for that. Why was she getting attached to this man so quickly? It was disconcerting and annoying, to say the least.
Let him go
, then she could finish reading her novel in peace and quiet.

“I would stay longer—God knows I want to—but,” he paused as if carefully choosing the words, “I have some business to attend to.” That word again.
Business
. Again, no mention on what that business may entail. It was like he was purposely avoiding the subject.
Why is that?
After all, if his business was legit, why would he avoid talking about it? Was he involved in some criminal activity that warranted secrecy? She so wanted to find out.

Sam collected his jacket by the front door, pulled the keys out of his pants pocket, and without warning, leaned over and kissed her full on the mouth. Taken by surprise, Petra just stood there enjoying the flavor and heat of his sexy lips, feeling like a fool, but having apparently no willpower to extricate herself from the situation. The kiss was over too soon, and with a cryptic look, Sam left. “Coward,” she said under her breath. “Leaving me here with my heart in my throat and my legs turned to mush…”

An idea, probably not the best she had ever had, came to her in a flash of light. She was going to follow him and find out, once and for all, what this mysterious business was all about. She grabbed her coat, her purse, and her keys, and left, hoping that her small Yaris had the necessary spunk to catch up with his Rubicon already ahead on the dark road.

Sam was driving rather slowly and her little car caught up to him pretty quickly. Making sure she didn’t get close enough to be noticed, Petra drove carefully and purposely behind him. He was heading outside Seattle, toward Bremerton. What could there be in the small navy town of Bremerton that necessitated the long night drive there? Curiosity was eating her inside and she had to turn on the radio to distract herself from her own thoughts and questions. “What the hell are you up to, Sam?” she asked herself out loud as she navigated through the dark, zigzagging roads before hitting the highway. She almost hoped he would stick to the back roads where it was much easier to follow a car at night, but he didn’t. At some point, he took an exit toward the highway. Petra turned off the radio and sped up in order to stay closer to his car and not lose him in the traffic leaving Seattle.

The silver Rubicon drove for about an hour before reaching the city limits of Bremerton. There he drove much slower toward the port. Was he going to the navy base? No, he took a different turn and headed toward where the ferries moored.
Don’t tell me he’s going to take a ferry back to Seattle.
She scrubbed her hand over her face and clenched her teeth. Nothing he was doing made any sense.