Читать книгу Tidal Flats - Cynthia Newberry Martin - Страница 14

4

Cass’s father had been a lieutenant general hoping for a fourth star. Ten years ago, just after he died, she’d flown to MacDill Air Force Base in Tampa, where he’d been stationed before he deployed. She couldn’t find his book of Rumi’s poems anywhere. A month later, when the box of his things arrived from Afghanistan, there it was.

When she’d left the apartment this morning, everything was the same; now she was returning home in charge of Howell. Once in the door, she went straight to her desk for her father’s leather-bound copy of Rumi. The spine was broken, the pages torn and discolored, but in a book of 225 pages, only five passages were marked, each by two lines, one in the white space to the side of the passage and one under a word in the passage. Cass knew all five by heart. When she was a child, her father had read to her, not from children’s books but from Rumi. Since her father died, she’d read the book a crazy number of times. And every time, only those ten ruler-straight lines. Each time she came across an underlined word, she placed her finger on it. Emptiness, love, wings, darkness, fire—this was the order the words appeared in the passages of the book, but often she rearranged them, trying to turn them into a message.

She placed Rumi back on top of the stack of books on her smoky white desk, the only piece of furniture that had made the journey from house number fourteen in Columbus to her college dorm suite in downtown Atlanta. In her Virginia Highlands apartment, the only place the desk had fit was next to her bed, saving her the cost of a separate night table. Now next to her bed was the only place her desk felt right—fueling her dreams and standing guard.

In the den, she stretched out on the sofa not looking toward the French doors that opened onto the world of the city where, with all the metal and glass, everything seemed alive—quick, sharp, shiny—but looking toward the motionless front door. At the scratching sound of a key in the lock, she looked up, and there was Ethan—and as if she were a match he’d struck, a spark ran through her body, from her eyes through her heart to her toes. The shock and pleasure of it. His coming home and her being here. Marriage.

Before she could get up, he bent to kiss her, sliding his hand down her arm until his fingers slipped between her fingers—making her want to reverse time so she could watch to see how their fingers knew which way to go.

As he straightened, he pulled a bottle of champagne out of a brown paper bag. “Congratulations to the new director,” he said.

She grinned and pulled him down for another kiss. “Thank you,” she said. “Although it’s terrible about Bev.”

“She’s tough. I bet she comes through even stronger.”

He dropped his computer and camera cases on the wheelbarrow bench—made from an Afghan wheelbarrow with one side cut off and a blue cushion added. With a sigh, he collapsed on the sofa that backed up to hers. They had two identical sofas, one facing the fireplace and the other facing the TV.

“How was your day?” she asked, words she loved saying. She reached over the low backs of the sofas and rubbed his shoulder through the black cashmere sweater she’d given him before they were married.

“I got the photos off to Boston. Only a month late. And listen to this. I’m just going to use one room, square, with one glass door. Nineteen photos. All the same size. All hung at the same height. Black frames, of course. Five photos on each wall—except the wall with the door.” He sat up on his elbows as if he wanted to make sure she was listening. “The photos—of the war, the people, the land—no beginning or end.”

“I love it,” she said, climbing, as she often did, onto the tops of the sofas, leaving one leg on her side and wedging the other one in beside Ethan, who dropped his head back to the sofa arm. “I do want to go with you.”

“That’s my girl,” he said. “I’ll see about getting you a ticket.” He picked up her foot and placed it on his chest. Then he peeled off her sock and held onto her bare foot.

In their galley kitchen, he stood there, his hands in his pockets, while on their small island she assembled the mustard, pimentos, softened cream cheese, and bowl of grated cheddar. He loved it when she made her grandmother’s pimento cheese.

“How’s the new Fate?” he asked, leaning toward her.

“Lois. She’s eighty-six. She has children and grandchildren and great-grandchildren.”

“I wonder what being eighty-six feels like—having your life behind you.”

Cass stopped stirring, looked at Ethan. “She’s not dead.”

“But babe, scientifically speaking …”

“E, these years count as much as the others. I refuse to accept that the Fates are just waiting to die.” She leaned against the counter. “But they’re fifty years older than we are,” she said. “Fifty. That seems impossible. Lois’s kids wouldn’t let her bring everything she wanted to.”

He pulled out their single kitchen stool and sat, watching her.

“There’s this pair of red heels,” she said, stirring again.

“Heels?”

“Yes, heels. The man who once loved her like you love me gave them to her. He’s dead, and now she doesn’t even have the shoes.”

“If you get them for her, then one day, fifty years from now, maybe someone will retrieve something I gave you, that our children make you give away.”

“How do you do that—turn a conversation so completely?”

Two plates, two glasses, two of everything. Which made her think of Noah and wonder what was coming.

“While you were in the shower,” he said, “I checked about getting you a ticket to Boston. Not many options since I’m going up one day and coming back the next. Almost a thousand dollars.”

“Because you leave in eleven days. But who’s counting?”

He tilted his head and took another bite of Chicken Parmesan. They were eating on the table that had been in her apartment. Two candles.

“That’s an absurd amount of money,” she said, twirling her wine glass. “And Boston’s just one night.” One night was not a problem. One night was a breath, her glass door.

“I’ll be back before you can miss me,” he said.

“I missed you while you were gone today.”

“An odd day to miss me.”

“A safe day to miss you,” she said, looking into the same eyes she’d looked into all those years ago at the duck pond, shadowy eyes that could see the beauty in Afghanistan, eyes that could see things as they were and yet something more.