It Happened on Maple Street

I’d walked through hell and come out on the other side.

I’d found and accessed my inner strength.

And I had no interest in sex.

I sat. Clicked on the album for the current work in progress and forced myself to sink into the world that I’d created.

Until 12:57 PM. 2:57 PM his time. My icon popped up, followed by a flash of the message that had just come in.

It was dated January 22, 2007.

Tara: I can tell you’re a writer (haha). Your life sounds great, I’m very proud of you. I’m at work right now. I will send you an e-mail later tonight to catch you up. Note my cell #. I would love to hear your voice.

Talk later, Tim

I stared at the number at the bottom of the page. He told me to note it. So I did. I memorized it. But I wasn’t calling him.

I had no idea what he wanted from me. Or what I could give him. But my heart was pounding. What would his letter say? How much of himself was he going to share with me?

I wanted to know it all.

Twenty-seven years had passed since I’d heard from him, and with one e-mail I was right back where I’d been at twenty.

Aching for him.

Chapter Nineteen

THE AFTERNOON WAS LONG. I DIDN’T HEAR FROM CHRIS, but I hadn’t expected to. He was done with me. I understood that. I got through about 100 pages of changes. And when 3:00 PM arrived, 5:00 PM for Tim in Ohio, quitting time I surmised, I started to watch the computer again. Each time a new e-mail popped up my stomach jumped.

His name popped up at 3:46 PM my time. Forty-six minutes after he’d gotten off work.

I clicked on the post. And stopped once again. There was

no letter. Just a note saying the letter was coming. But he’d attached a song. He asked me to listen to it.

“Hot August Night.”

I clicked to play the song and closed my eyes, as I always did when I listened to Neil Diamond sing, and heard my big brother’s voice.

And I knew that him sending me that song was a sign to me, from my brother, or from the universe, that talking to Tim was the right thing to do.

There was something else, too, which I told Tim in the e-mail I quickly sent back to him.

I know every word of the song—as well as every other song Neil Diamond sings. I’ve seen him live more times than I can count.

And how ironic is this? I spent the day doing line edits on a book that I wrote several months ago. It takes place in Ohio—with the whole catalyst of the mystery revolving around something that happened at Wright State University twenty-one years ago.

Tim and I had happened there, too, more than twenty years before.

I knew that the cascading events—me signing up for Classmates. com, the events the day before with Chris, the Neil Diamond song, and the book connection—were more than coincidence. I was being hit over the head with signs that what was happening was meant to be for some reason.

I couldn’t have stayed away from Tim if I’d had to—not even to save my life.

I couldn’t leave the office, either. Not until I’d read the letter he was sending. It came in a long hour later. I looked at the signature first, and froze. He’d signed Lots of Love, Tim.

Oh my God. I read those words. I read them again. My insides danced. And then clenched with fear. I ordered myself to calm down. And I just kept looking at those words.

Lots of Love. My signature from so many years ago.