With This Ring (19 page)

One particularly beautiful Saturday in late May, when the two of them had taken a picnic lunch to Hermann Park where they spent three pleasant hours eating and watching the children at play, Amy said, "I don't know what I would have done without you the past seven months, Justin."

His eyes looked even bluer than usual as they met hers. He smiled and continued toying with a blade of grass. She thought how nice he was, how reliable and steady and honest. A person could always count on Justin. When he said he was going to do something, he did it.

She wondered why he hadn't married. He was thirty-six, attractive, had a good job, and all the qualities women looked for in a man. What was the problem? Giving in to an impulse she later questioned, she said, "Can I ask you something?"

"Sure. Go ahead."

"I'm curious. Why are you still single?"

He looked at her for a long moment, then turned his gaze into the distance. His face was in profile to her, so she couldn't see his expression. "Until last year, I'd never met anyone I wanted to marry." He turned to meet her eyes. "Unfortunately, she wasn't available."

Amy's heart beat harder. The look in his eyes told her this was a subject she should have left alone. "Oh. I-I'm sorry," she said, because she had to say something. To give herself something to do, she started gathering up the remains of their meal and putting them into the picnic hamper.

"Amy."

Slowly, she looked up.

"You know I love you, don't you?"

She swallowed. Of course, she'd known. Somewhere deep inside, the knowledge had been there, even if she'd never acknowledged it.

"I know you still love Sam," he continued quietly. "I know it's too soon, but do you think . . . is there a chance that someday . . . ?"

"I don't know. I-I . . . it
is
too soon . . . I'm sorry." Now she threw things into the hamper. She just wanted to get out of there. To go home. To pretend these words had never been spoken.

"Amy . . . " Justin grabbed her arm, made her stop her frantic movements. "It's okay. Maybe I shouldn't have said anything. I just . . . I wanted you to know how I feel. I wanted you to know that I'll always be there for you. But I'll never pressure you, I promise. If all you want from me is friendship, I can accept that. If you want more, all you have to do is let me know. The future is entirely up to you."

* * *

For weeks after this episode, nothing more was said, but Amy knew Justin was thinking about it, just as she was. She went over and over her motives for bringing up the subject. Why had she? She didn't know. She only knew she wished she hadn't, because she was so afraid she'd hurt him. But after several times together with no mention of the picnic and his declaration, and with no change in his attitude toward her, Amy once again relaxed and realized he'd meant what he'd said. He would always be her friend, but the future course of their relationship was entirely up to her.

* * *

October, 1993

Amy sat by the window. She stared at the view beyond. Normally, these clear, bright days of autumn were her favorite time of the year. She loved the gradual turning of the leaves, the frenetic activity of the squirrels, the smell of smoke from fireplaces, and the increased energy level of Houstonians—who were just as glad as she was to see the stunning heat of summer finally go away.

But nothing had been normal this entire year.

Sometimes it amazed Amy that she'd actually gotten through it. God knows, there had been so many days she didn't think she would.

Tomorrow it would be exactly one year since Sam had disappeared. No trace had ever been found of his body. The search parties had long since ceased to search, especially since a month after Sam's fall, the entire western part of Nepal had been buried under a blizzard and subsequent avalanches. Hundreds of people had been trapped—hikers and tourists among them. Dozens had died.

For a long time, Amy had continued to harbor a secret glimmer of hope, but as winter wore on, and then spring and summer came—and with it, a return of Sam's possessions from the trip—even that glimmer faded away.

Now she knew, finally and irrevocably, that Sam was dead. She sighed, twisting the emerald ring around and around on her finger. She'd had to wind thread around the back of it because she'd lost so much weight it no longer fit. She knew she should remove it, just as she knew she should put the unfinished portrait away, and get rid of his clothes and belongings that were still there, but she couldn't seem to make herself do those things, no matter how her mother and Lark urged her to.

It wasn't that she still cried at night or that she felt sad all the time. She didn't. Sometimes hours would go by when she didn't think about Sam at all, especially now that she'd gone back to teaching.

She smiled, remembering her first day back at school. She had been dreading it. Firsts were difficult, and facing her co-workers, seeing their sympathy and curiosity, was sure to reopen many wounds.

But it hadn't been nearly as bad as she'd imagined. And that was because of the kids. They were so glad to see her. Amy knew, because her principal had told her, that the children had been informed of the cause of Amy's long absence. They didn't know about the baby, of course. Only Amy's family and Lark and Justin knew about the baby. But it was touchingly evident that the news of Sam's death had made an impact. The children were on their best behavior that day, and almost all of them brought her some sort of welcome back gift.

The gifts and the unspoken sympathy of the children brought tears to Amy's eyes more than once. One student, in particular, affected Amy more than any other. The girl, a fourth grader named Michelle, had been battling leukemia for several years. She was in remission right now, but her prognosis was iffy. She was a bright, articulate child with more than average artistic talent, and she was a favorite of Amy's.

Michelle waited until after school that first day, and once the others were gone from the classroom, she came forward and gravely presented Amy with a beautifully-wrapped, leather-bound volume of Elizabeth Barrett Browning's poems. "Oh," Amy said. "Michelle! What a wonderful gift. Thank you."

"You're welcome, Miss Carpenter." The girl's dark eyes shone softly. "I-I missed you while you were gone."

Amy swallowed against the lump in her throat. "I missed you, too," she said and knew it was true.

"You've been sad, haven't you?"

Amy nodded.

Michelle reached over to touch Amy's hand. "Don't be sad," she whispered. "My dad says when good people die they go to a better place where they never feel pain or any bad things. M-maybe when you feel sad, you could remember that."

Amy had managed to smile at the child. "Thank you," she murmured. "I won't forget."

She also wouldn't forget the little girl's courage and generosity. There she was, facing her own death on a daily basis, living with pain and fear and the prospect of not ever making it to her adult years, and she was comforting Amy.

After that, things got easier. Each day, Amy thought less and less of her problems and more and more about the children and theirs. She spent long hours at night planning lessons, pouring over books of art projects to find ones she thought would particularly interest and stimulate the childrens' creativity.

And now, here it was, nearly eight weeks later, and she was once again facing a difficult first. But when tomorrow was past, there would be no more firsts. They would all be behind her, and maybe, just maybe, she would start looking forward to the future.

* * *

Again, getting through a milestone turned out to be easier than Amy had anticipated. But that was because of Justin. Obviously, he had been thinking about the date, too, because he called her early that morning—while she was getting ready for school.

"Hey," he said.

"Hey, yourself. What are you doing calling me so early?" She was proud of herself. She actually sounded happy.

"I wanted to be sure to catch you before you left for school," he said. "I was hoping you'd go to dinner with me tonight."

"Justin, that's sweet of you, and I appreciate it, but you don't have to babysit me. I'll be okay."

"I know you'll be okay. That's not why I asked you. I asked you because I want to be with you. You know that."

Amy fiddled with the telephone cord. "Well, when you put it that way . . . okay. Great. I accept, but only if we go dutch."

"We're not going dutch. I'm inviting you to be my guest, and my guests don't pay for their meals," he said.

He took her to Pappasito's, and Amy knew the choice of the noisy Mexican restaurant was a carefully chosen one. His understanding and thoughtfulness touched her deeply. There were so many people there, talking, laughing, eating, and drinking, that she couldn't possibly feel sad.

Justin plied her with margaritas and kept urging her to eat more, and by the time the evening was over, Amy felt replete and amazingly at peace. When he brought her home, he kissed her cheek and said, "Sleep well."

"Thank you, Justin. I will."

And miraculously, she did.

Even the holidays were not as difficult as they might have been, with their reminders of the agony of the previous year. Amy allowed herself to be persuaded to go with her parents to Steamboat Springs over Thanksgiving, where Alan's sister Marian and her daughter Hannah joined them.

The change of scenery, the skiing, the company of her cousin, who Amy had always wished to know better—all served to keep her mind and body occupied and away from any sad thoughts.

Christmas, too, turned out to be far more pleasant than Amy feared. Her parents held their annual Christmas Eve open house, which was lovely, as always. They invited half a dozen friends-—including Lark—to join the family for Christmas dinner. They were overly generous with Christmas gifts for Amy, but Amy understood their motives and appreciated the kindness and love behind the Mizrahi sweater set, the Mikimoto pearls and the St. John knit dress. And if, when she fingered the soft wool of the sweater, she thought fleetingly that, if things had been different, she might have been fingering a receiving blanket, she managed to banish the emotions quickly.

Christmas night, Justin came over, and he and Lark and Amy spent the evening in her apartment playing Monopoly and drinking eggnog and listening to Christmas music on the radio.

And anytime Amy started to think about Sam and what this Christmas might have been like if he'd lived and they'd gotten married and had their baby, either Lark or Justin seemed to instinctively know which way her thoughts were turning, and they'd say something silly or ask her a question so she'd have to respond, and the bad moment would pass. At midnight, when by unspoken agreement they both rose to leave, Amy hugged each in turn and whispered her thanks.

Later, after she'd turned out the tree lights and cleaned up the kitchen and gotten ready for bed, she walked out into the moonlit living room and stood in front of the unfinished portrait of Sam.

She kissed the tips of her fingers, then placed them against his mouth. And then she picked up the canvas, carried it over to the cupboard where she stored her art supplies, and placed it inside.

The day after Christmas, Lark slept late. At eleven, in the middle of her third cup of coffee, she got a phone call from Justin.

"Last night was fun, wasn't it?" he said after they'd disposed of the hellos.

Lark smiled. "Yes, it was."

"And I thought Amy did really well, considering."

"Me, too. I think she's finally starting to mend."

After a little more chitchat, Justin said, "Do you have plans for New Year's Eve?"

For one moment, Lark thought he was asking her out on a date, and her heart took a crazy hop. "Well, um, my mother always has an open house/cocktail party kind of thing. It's a tradition with her, and I'm expected to be there. But I don't usually stay long."

"Well, my brother always has a party and it's usually a lot of fun. I thought, if you didn't have plans, maybe you'd like to come. I plan to ask Amy, and I thought she'd be more likely to say yes if you were coming, too."

Amy. Of course. Lark should have known.

"That's a good idea, Justin," she said evenly, swallowing her disappointment. "It'll be good for her to ease back into seeing other people besides us."

"Great. I'm taking her to lunch tomorrow, and I'll ask her then."

After they'd hung up, Lark stared at the phone for a long moment. Her reaction when she'd thought Justin was going to ask her out disturbed her. When had this happened? When had he become more to her than just a friend?

Lark, old girl, this is trouble. It's obvious to anyone with eyes how he feels about Amy . . .

"Oh, fuck," she muttered. Of all the stupid things to do, she'd gone and fallen for a guy who didn't know she was alive.

Giving way to the temper she normally succeeded in controlling, she kicked at her couch, forgetting she was barefoot.

"Ouch! Goddammit!" She hobbled to the front of couch and sat down.

She didn't know whether to laugh or cry.

* * *

Lark talked Amy into going to her mother's open house with her, and then on to Steven Malone's party. The two friends arrived at the lavish, pseudo-Spanish, Memorial-area home of Isabel Markham DeWitt Reiner Cardosa at eight, and there were already a dozen or more cars parked in the driveway and along the meandering street that paralleled Buffalo Bayou.

"Oh, God," Lark moaned. "I detest this."

Amy gave her a sympathetic smile. "I know. That's why I let you talk me into coming . . . to give you moral support." Lord knows, Lark had given her enough support over the past year.

"Lark, darling,
there
you are!" Isabel said, rushing to greet them. She wrapped thin, tanned, gym-toned arms around her daughter's neck and they exchanged air-kisses. "And Amy, poor love, I'm so glad to see you."

Amy suffered through Isabel's hug and her gushing concern. Lark's mother was hard to take because most of the time you couldn't be sure if her interest was real or faked, although Amy usually gave her the benefit of the doubt. She looked beautiful tonight. Her wheat colored hair and blue eyes were perfectly complemented by her topaz satin cocktail dress and diamond teardrop earrings.