He forced himself to keep moving. With each step taken, the sound of laughter diminished until, by the time he reached the edge of the woods, he had to strain to hear it at all. He found a soft bed of pine needles and sat down. Moonlight glowed around him, turning the world into a smear of blue-white and black.
He unzipped his backpack and burrowed through the damp, wadded-up clothes, looking for the two items that mattered.
Three years ago, when he’d first run away, he’d carried an expensive suitcase. He still remembered standing in his bedroom, packing for a trip without destination or duration, wondering what a man in exile would need. He’d packed khaki slacks and merino wool sweaters and even a black Joseph Abboud suit.
By the end of his first winter alone, he’d understood that those clothes were the archaeological remains of a forgotten life. Useless. All he needed in his new life were two pair of jeans, a few T-shirts, a sweatshirt, and a rain slicker. Everything else he’d given to charity.
The only expensive garment he’d kept was a pink cashmere sweater with tiny shell buttons. On a good night, he could still smell her perfume in the soft fabric.
He withdrew a small, leatherbound photo album from the backpack. With shaking fingers, he opened the front cover.
The first picture was one of his favorites.
In it, Diana sat on a patch of grass, wearing a pair of white shorts and a Yale T-shirt. There was a stack of books open beside her, and a mound of pink cherry blossoms covered the pages. She was smiling so brightly he had to blink back tears. “Hey, baby,” he whispered, touching the glossy covering. “I had a hot shower tonight. ”
He closed his eyes. In the darkness, she came to him. It was happening more and more often lately, this sensation that she hadn’t left him, that she was still here. He knew it was a crack in his mind, a mental defect. He didn’t care.
“I’m tired,” he said to her, breathing in deeply, savoring the scent of her perfume. Red by Giorgio. He wondered if they made it anymore.
It’s no good, what you’re doing.
“I don’t know what else to do. ”
Go home.
“I can’t. ”
You break my heart, Joey.
And she was gone.
With a sigh, he leaned back against a big tree stump.
Go home, she’d said. It was what she always said to him.
What he said to himself.
Maybe tomorrow, he thought, reaching for the kind of courage that would make it possible. God knew after three years on the road, he was tired of being this alone.
Maybe tomorrow he would finally—finally—allow himself to start walking west.
Diana would like that.
SIX
LIKE SUNSHINE, NIGHT BROUGHT OUT THE BEST IN SEATTLE. The highway—a bumper-to-bumper nightmare at morning rush hour—became, at night, a glittering red-and-gold Chinese dragon that curled along the blackened banks of Lake Union. The cluster of high-rises in the city’s midtown heart, so ordinary in the gray haze on a June day, was a kaleidoscope of sculpted color when night fell.
Meghann stood at her office window. She never failed to be mesmerized by this view. The water was a black stain that consumed nearby Bainbridge Island. Though she couldn’t see the streets below, she knew they were clogged. Traffic was the curse Seattle had carried into the new millennium. Millions of people had moved into the once-sleepy town, drawn by the quality of life and the variety of outdoor activities. Unfortunately, after they built expensive cul-de-sac homes in the suburbs, they took jobs in the city. Roads designed for an out-of-the-way port town couldn’t possibly keep up.
Progress.
Meghann glanced down at her watch. It was 8:30. Time to head home. She’d bring the Wanamaker file with her. Get a jump on tomorrow.
Behind her, the door opened. Ana, the cleaning woman, pushed her supply cart into the room, dragging a vacuum cleaner alongside. “Hello, Miss Dontess. ”
Meghann smiled. No matter how often she told Ana to call her Meghann, the woman never did. “Good evening, Ana. How’s Raul?”
“Tomorrow we find out if he get stationed at McChord. We keep our fingers crossed, ¿sí?”