A Note from an Old Acquaintance

  Bill Walker Designs

  2012

  Copyright © 2012 Bill Walker

  Bill Walker Designs Edition 2012

  Old Acquaintance Still Life © 2009 Michael Kupka

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author, or his agent, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a critical article or review to be printed in a magazine or newspaper, or electronically transmitted on radio or television.

  All persons in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance that may seem to exist to actual persons living or dead is purely coincidental. This is a work of fiction.

  Cover Layout: Bill Walker

  E-book Design: Bill Walker

  To All Loves Lost...And Found.

  And to my Muse,

  who continues to inspire me

  in the profoundest of ways.

  2006

  It is said that something as small as the flap of a butterfly’s wings can cause a typhoon on the other side of the world—that every action, no matter how insignificant, affects everything else in incalculable ways. And therein lies the irony.

  —Anonymous

  1

  “Please tell me why you’re doing this, Brian! Please!”

  He tried opening his mouth, tried to tell her the truth, but the words he’d always wielded with such effortless aplomb, failed him, slipping away like smoke on a windy day. His throat felt as if it were gripped in a vise, his mind a flat, cracked slab of flyblown desert; and her muted sobs echoing through the phone’s earpiece made him want to take it all back. Every word. But how could he do that, now?

  “I—I’m sorry, Joanna...for everything....”

  “BRIANNNN!”

  THE PHONE JANGLED, RIPPING Brian Weller out of the dream. He sat up, gasping, sounds and images jumbling in his groggy brain until none of it made any sense.

  The phone rang again, startling him.

  He grabbed it, his eyes struggling against the darkness in the room.

  What time was it?

  Jesus, it was only 6:00. It felt even earlier due to the late night he’d spent at the computer.

  He cleared his throat. “Brian Weller.”

  “Is this a good time?”

  Brian’s body stiffened. It was Armen Surabian, Penny’s neurologist. “What’s wrong? Is everything—”

  The voice on the phone softened. “Hold on, Hoss, everything’s fine. Her vitals are stable, but we need to talk.”

  Brian sagged back against his pillows, his heart rate dropping. “I keep dreading that phone call, Armen.”

  “And this one isn’t it, but we still need to talk.”

  “What about? And why couldn’t it wait until a decent hour?”

  “I’d rather not discuss it on the phone.”

  “Now, you’re making me nervous again, Doc.”

  “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to, but it’s been awhile since we’ve assessed the situation, and I think it’s time we did. And don’t call me Doc.”

  Brian grinned. “And don’t call me Hoss.”

  It was an old gag between them, a sure sign that things were status quo...for the moment.

  “All right,” Brian said. “What time?”

  “How about we do lunch? Meet me at the Bistro. I’ll buy.”

  “Now, that’s an occasion. You’re on.”

  Brian hung up, then padded into the bathroom and threw cold water on his face. Might as well get up and see if he could get any more writing done. Donning his bathrobe, he trudged downstairs, turned on his MAC G5 then entered the kitchen to brew up some much-needed java. How much sleep had he gotten? Four hours? And Armen’s phone call coming at this ungodly hour didn’t make it any better. Brian shook his head and laughed. Did the guy ever sleep? He was always calling at weird hours and never seemed to realize that he might be inconveniencing someone. Still, he was the best doctor in Los Angeles, and Penny deserved the best.

  When the coffee finished brewing, Brian filled his mug, went back into his study and sat down in front of the computer. The familiar image he’d put up as wallpaper on the screen stared back at him. It was a picture of Penny and their son, Joey, taken on a postcard-perfect summer day at Roxbury Park two years before. They’d both mugged for the camera, looking silly. It wasn’t the best photo. It was just the last one...before the accident.

  “Miss you, Little Guy,” Brian said, to the image of the towheaded boy grinning back at him.

  He took a sip of his coffee and grimaced. When would he ever learn to make it right? It was something Penny always did, and she’d always chided him that he should learn.

  “Guess, I never will, Pen.”

  Looking down, he turned the mug in his hands, the one she’d given him after his first book sold, its once stark white glaze now chipped and yellowed. He read the stenciled words for the millionth time.

  GENIUS AT WORK!

  He sure as hell didn’t feel like a genius. Not now, anyway, no matter what the L.A. Times or any of those other rags spouted. They’d called his latest, A Nest of Vipers, “a towering landmark of suspense.” It still sat in the top ten after twenty-five weeks. No small feat. And to tell the truth, he was proud of it. But because of the mess his life had become, it had taken every ounce of will and discipline to finish that book. Now, after six months of beating his head against the wall, it was time to acknowledge that the well had run dry; and the thought of that scared him to the core.

  He brought up the previous night’s work and read through it, hating every word.

  “Who are you kidding, Weller?” he said, shaking his head. He reached for the DELETE key, and noticed the little mailbox icon in the upper right-hand corner of the screen was flashing, indicating fresh mail.

  Well, at least someone loves me, he thought, grabbing the mouse. He opened his AOL account, ignoring the headlines shouting about the latest North Korean saber rattling and the newest fad diets.

  Thirty e-mails. Thirty since last night.

  Most of them were the usual spam for hot stocks and hotter singles, as well as those from the ubiquitous pharmaceutical touts. He deleted them with the practiced motions of one who’d done it a thousand times.

  That left four. Two were from his agent. He smiled, knowing Doris would be falling all over herself to apologize for her caustic humor during their last phone call. He’d read them later. The third was from his college alumni association with the usual pitch for money.

  Not today.

  He stared at the subject line of the last one, frowning.

  A Note From An Old Acquaintance....

  Odd. A part of him wanted to delete it, feeling it was just another spammer with a crafty come on. But another, deeper part of him knew it wasn’t.

  “The hell with it,” he said, clicking the READ button with a jab of his index finger. The e-mail flashed onto the screen. The font resembled feminine handwriting, almost as if someone had scanned an actual letter.

  August 19, 2006

  Dear Brian:

  I know it’s been almost fifteen years since we last saw or spoke with one another, and I’m not at all sure if I’ll be able to put my feelings into the proper words as eloquently as I know you can, so I’ll just muddle through.

  I often think about the night you and I met at that private party Nick Simon threw at the Metropolis Club back in ’91. And I still remember the feelings that went through me when you asked me to dance and how we spent the evening together. I wanted you to know that night, and all the days and nights that followed, were magical on
es for me, as I’ve always hoped they were for you.

  Ever since I saw your interview on the Today Show last month, I’ve wanted to contact you and tell you this—to see if I could find out why things turned out the way they did. I have so many unanswered questions, Brian. You see, you really made an impression on me, one I’ve carried with me all these years. What’s really silly to me is why I’ve waited so long. Guess I was afraid of how you might feel.... And maybe how I’d feel, too. Truth is I’ve never stopped wondering if I deserved to meet someone as wonderful as you. Maybe I didn’t. Does any of this make sense? Maybe you’ll just laugh at this e-mail or...maybe you’ve forgotten. I hope not.

  Anyway, please tell your agent that I’m sorry for my little deception. I told her I was your cousin, so she’d give me your e-mail. She wouldn’t budge on the phone number. Boy, you must REALLY think I’m nuts!

  I’m now the head of the Fine Arts department at The Boston Art School. You can reach me at 617-555-8795 on Mondays, Tuesdays and Fridays when I hold office hours.

  I’d love to hear from you.

  Sincerely,

  Joanna Richman

  PS—I’ve read all your books. They’re terrific!

  He stared at the screen, his mind spinning.

  “It couldn’t be....”

  Joanna Richman.

  Brian shook his head, his emotions warring. He remembered her, all right. Her and that night in the minutest detail, his nascent writer’s mind recording everything: the shadowy modernist interior of the club, the moment their eyes met, falling madly in love with her in the span of a heartbeat, and the one other not-so-insignificant thing that hung over that night and its aftermath like a pall: she was engaged to another man. And as far as how he might feel, he wasn’t at all sure how he felt.

  And the dream he’d just had.... It was more than a little uncanny.

  “Why now, Joanna? Why the hell now?”

  2

  FOR YET ANOTHER LONG and fretful night, Brian had haunted Joanna: his sweet handsome face...his velvety voice...the breathless memory of his touch...even the smell of him! Every memory of him more vivid than ever. And despite her determined attempts to meditate, to put those thoughts into their proper perspective, the calming effects she sought had eluded her, along with much-needed sleep and blessed forgetfulness, however fleeting. Instead, she’d again lain awake for half the night, her stomach twisted into guilty knots.

  What’s happened to my life?

  Lying there, with tear-clotted eyes, on her thousand dollar silk sheets in her multi-million dollar home, with every luxury her husband’s money could buy, she felt helpless and adrift, as if she’d somehow lost herself. That was the sum total of her life.

  Lost.

  She’d lost the one man who’d truly loved and understood her, for reasons that still remained a mystery, and spent the best years of her life living with a man who put her on a pedestal and worshipped her as if she were a goddess; and yet he was so obsessed with his ambitions, and the power and the money that followed, she’d become just another trapping of his life, another half-forgotten trophy.

  Why did she let that happen? Why had she stayed with him for all these years? Was it a stubborn refusal to admit she’d made the wrong choice? Perhaps. Her Buddhist faith gave her comfort, but she was far from attaining its lofty goal of surrendering her ego.

  Was it the money? As tempting as all of it was, if it weren’t for her son, Zack, she knew she could leave it all behind without a second thought. So, it wasn’t that.

  What about love, then? Yes, there had been love...once, but of a far different sort than the passion she’d felt for Brian. With Brian it felt as if they were two halves of a greater whole. Funny thing was, a part of her still loved Erik; she couldn’t deny that, but her feelings for him now were like a faded photograph pressed into a dusty shopworn album.

  And she was no goddess.

  She was gawky little Joanna Richman from the wrong side of Westbury, New York, who’d worn braces all through her teens, and didn’t have a date to her senior prom, but who loved creating her sculptures, teaching her students about life and art, and being the best mother she could be to Zack. The only other thing she wanted—and needed—was someone who would understand her and appreciate her for her virtues and her flaws—someone like...Brian. Was that so much to ask? Was her life over at forty? Maybe it was, and she was just too stupid and stubborn to accept it.

  If that’s the case, then why on earth did I send that e-mail?

  That question roiled in her mind, as well, much like the dust motes dancing in the bright August sun streaming through the cracks in the blinds. She watched them, momentarily distracted and enthralled by their acrobatic grace, and tried to find the hidden meaning in their swirling patterns. But they were as mute as the smiling statue of Buddha sitting atop her dresser across the room.

  Why had she stirred up something perhaps best left in the past? After all, Brian had a life, now, didn’t he—a different life? Who was she to intrude upon it? Was it just because she couldn’t get him out of her head?

  No. The truth ran deeper than that. Nature abhorred a vacuum...and so did her heart.

  He’d looked so dashing during that Today Show interview, so assured, so funny, so...Brian.... Yet she still couldn’t make that suave televised image jibe with the news stories she’d read about his wife and son.

  And there it was....

  How could she send him e-mails raking up another part of his past, a past he’d no doubt forgotten—or wanted to forget—when he was doing all he could to put on a brave face to the world? How could she be so selfish...and so cruel?

  Tears stung her large green eyes for perhaps the hundredth time that morning. She sat up in bed, reached for the tissue box, and dabbed them. God, her eyes felt as if they’d been rubbed with sandpaper.

  She squinted at the clock. It was after seven.

  If she didn’t get going now she would be late getting Zack to school and her first student meeting. A glance toward Erik’s side of the bed, the covers neatly remade, told her the usual story. With his new building nearly completed, he would be manic, consumed by the myriad details, his family an afterthought. It was almost as if she were a widow herself.

  Climbing from the bed, she took a quick shower and dressed in a simple black silk blouse and wool skirt, then sat in front of her vanity. Though the soft lights ringing the mirror cast an even glow designed to flatter, they failed to hide the dark circles under her eyes and the crow’s feet standing out like the stark lines on a roadmap. And was that another worry line at the edge of her brow? She sighed and began applying her makeup. It would take a bit more of her artistic flair than usual, and the irony of that made her sigh again. What would Brian think of his “favorite artist” now?

  A movement in the mirror drew her attention.

  “Hi, Mom,” Zack said, moving up behind her.

  Joanna smiled, her son’s auburn curls a mirror of her own. “Hi, baby, you ready?”

  The boy rolled his eyes. “Mom, please.”

  Joanna chuckled. How he hated it when she called him “baby.” Or at least he pretended to hate it, judging by the twinkle in his eyes. “You get something to eat?

  Zack nodded. “Just some toast.”

  “You need more than that, honey. You’re a growing boy.”

  “I had wheat germ, too.”

  “Okay, fine,” she said, knowing it was useless to argue with her teenager. “I’ll meet you downstairs. We’re heading out in five minutes.”

  The boy turned to leave the bathroom then stopped. “Did Dad read my new story yet?”

  The hopeful look on his face tugged at her heart. “I’m not sure. You know he’s been pretty busy.”

  “Yeah, I know.”

  “I’ll talk to him about it tonight, okay?”

  Zack gave his mother a sweet grin. “Okay.”

  After dropping her son at school and braving the bumper-to-bumper snarl on the Mass Pike, Joanna
made it into her office with three minutes to spare. She’d promised herself that she wasn’t going to check her e-mail—wasn’t even going to turn on the computer—but she’d known it was a hollow vow when she’d made it.

  There was nothing from Brian.

  “Well, what did you expect?” she muttered.

  “Excuse me, Professor?”

  Joanna turned, seeing her first appointment of the day standing in the doorway, an elfin freshman with soulful eyes right out of a Walter Keane painting. Joanna smiled warmly. “Come on in, Erin.”

  The girl sat down on the edge of the hardwood chair, fumbling with her portfolio. “Oh, Professor Richman, I don’t know how I’m going to pass drawing, I just can’t get it, I just can’t—”

  Joanna reached out and grasped the young girl’s hand. It trembled like a frightened animal. “Hey, it’s okay, relax. No one’s failing, here.”

  The young woman took a deep breath. “You make it look so easy, Professor. And I feel like such a klutz.”

  Joanna reached over to her bookshelf and pulled out a sketchpad and opened it to a blank page, then picked up a pencil off her desk. “It wasn’t always easy for me, either. The first thing you have to have is the desire, then the talent. You have both, Erin. Now all you need is the confidence that comes with practice.” Joanna handed the pad to the girl, who took it, then looked at her questioningly.

  “Do you see anything in this room that compels you to sketch it?”

  The girl studied the room, frowning. After a moment, her eyes stopped moving and she nodded. “That white rose in the vase.”

  Joanna smiled. “Good. Now, go on and draw it.”

  Erin began sketching lines on the page, her attention shifting back and forth between the rose and the paper.

  “It’s a beautiful rose, Professor.”

  Joanna felt her eyes grow misty again. “Yes, it is.”