This really wasn’t going very well.
I opened the bottle of wine, poured myself a glass, and took a fortifying sip. If I could survive a hurricane, leave my life behind, and set off across the country in the hopes of writing a book, I could certainly write an email to an old flame.
Dear Julian,
I happen to be in town for a day or two, and I was wondering if you’d like to have lunch. It’s been a long time, and it’d be great to catch up.
Anne
I took a deep breath, held it, and hit Send.
Immediately thereafter, I got up and began pacing the room.
I’d met Julian on the side of a road—just like the alien-hunters. I’d been walking home from school when the gray June sky unleashed a torrential, biblical downpour. I was soaked in seconds, sloshing my way through sudden puddles, when Julian pulled up on a motorcycle and offered me a ride. He went to the boarding school on the other side of town, but I’d seen him at a few parties. I glanced at his little vintage Honda, which hardly looked big enough for him, and I shook my head.
He’d smiled. “A gentleman always sees a lady to her door,” he said—or that’s what I thought he said; it was impossible to hear in all that pounding rain. He took off his helmet and put it on my head, and then he patted my hand reassuringly. And because his hand was so gentle, and because I was sopping and I still had a mile to go, I climbed on the back of the bike and put my arms around his waist.
It was the scariest ride of my life. The rain lashed my body and the gusting wind seemed like it was going to blow us into a ditch. Because I was squeezing my eyes shut in terror, I didn’t notice that he’d made a wrong turn until we were two miles into the country.
“Stop,” I’d screamed, and he’d yelled “What?” And then I nearly made him lose his balance and crash as I gestured wildly to a farm up ahead.
Shivering, we waited out the rest of the storm in a barn, watched by two wary cows and a few twittering sparrows.
Maybe it was the near-death experience (or the near-near-death experience) that made us feel close to each other so quickly. Or maybe it was the serendipity of two bookish introverts finding each other in such a crazy way. Or it could have been something as simple as teenage hormones. But after that day, we were together all the time—we talked on the phone every night before we fell asleep, and we saw each other every weekend. He gave me flowers and mix CDs; I bought him poetry books, a collection of Rilke’s letters, and weird talismans from thrift shops.
When Julian went away to college, I thought my heart would break. But later that fall my mother died, and the pain of that washed away everything else.
It wasn’t that I thought I’d fall in love with Julian again all these years later. But I needed to see who he’d become.
And, to be quite honest, his Facebook status was single.
My email dinged, and my heart did a jitterbug in my chest.
I’d love to meet, his reply said.
Let’s say the El Dorado Kitchen at the El Dorado Hotel. Tomorrow at noon.
Yours,
Julian
Chapter 24
I WAS early to the restaurant, even though I’d spent two hours getting ready, including thirty minutes of debate over whether I should wear my hair up (sophisticated) or down (carefree).
Ultimately I’d decided on an elegant chignon, complemented by my best sundress, my biggest pair of dark sunglasses, and my only pair of heels. No one would mistake me for a modern-day Audrey Hepburn, but I felt put together—chic, even.
The ma?tre d’ smiled graciously and led me to the restaurant’s back patio. There, sitting in the dappled shade of a lush fig tree, was Julian.
My breath caught in my throat; the years since I’d seen him evaporated in an instant. Here he was, the boy I thought I’d love forever, suddenly transformed into a man.
As I walked toward him, my whole body electric with recognition, Julian looked up from the book he was reading, and his face opened in that big smile I knew so well. He stood up, and we hugged—laughing, shy, elated. He kissed me softly on the cheek and then stepped back to take me in.
“You’re even more beautiful than I remembered,” he said as he pulled out a chair for me.
“You’re not half bad yourself,” I countered, blushing and pushing a loose strand of hair away from my face.
But that was an understatement: Julian was striking, with high, aristocratic cheekbones and a light fan of wrinkles around his bright green eyes. His hair was a shade darker than it used to be, and he’d traded the vintage T-shirts and faded jeans of his youth for summer-weight wool pants and a custom shirt.
He looked so handsome and prosperous—if I hadn’t known him as a skinny teenager, I’d probably be too intimidated to talk to him now.
As I settled myself at the table, a waiter glided over and poured me a flute of Champagne. “Will you be having the four-course tasting menu also?” he murmured. “The ahi tuna salad, the tagliatelle with fresh herbs, the king salmon, and the zabaglione?”
The what? I thought. My mind was spinning a little. For one thing, my first love was sitting three feet away from me. For another, my road meals were basically four courses of Cheetos. I must have nodded, though, because the waiter said “Very good” and slid away.
“Nearly twenty years,” Julian said, shaking his head and smiling. “I can’t believe it.”
“I know,” I said, taking a sip of the golden bubbly wine. “It’s crazy, isn’t it? I’m almost twice as old as I was the last time I saw you. So why is it, Julian Fielding, that I so rarely feel like a real grown-up?” I laughed. “Do you ever have that problem? You don’t really look like you do.”
Julian’s eyes sparked with humor. “I’m a true grown-up from approximately nine to five, Monday to Friday. Your typical working stiff. Other than that, all bets are off.”
“What do you do now, anyway?” I asked. My haphazard Facebook sleuthing had turned up little besides his relationship status—Julian wasn’t much of a poster.
“I’m a lawyer,” he said. “And I’m glad you couldn’t immediately guess that. I specialize in estates and trusts. But that’s all you need to hear about my job, because it’s deadly boring.”
“Oh, but very respectable,” I said, a slight lilting tease in my voice.
“Yes, that’s what I always meant to be when I grew up: respectable,” Julian said wryly.
“Well, I wanted to be an art photographer, and instead I take pictures of pets. Weddings. Bridezillas. I guess that’s just what happens when you get older: You have to get realistic. You compromise.” I sighed as I speared a lettuce leaf.
Julian smiled. “But if being a grown-up means you can leave work to take a long lunch with a gorgeous woman, then I’ll take it.”
I flushed again, wondering how in the world he was still single.
“So what brings you to town, anyway?” Julian asked.
You, I wanted to say.
What I actually said was “I’m working on a new project—it’s a mix of words and pictures at the moment. I’ve been informally interviewing people all over the country about their lives, their stories. And I’ve been taking their photographs.”
“That sounds amazing,” Julian said.
“I don’t know about amazing, but I hope it’s at least interesting,” I said.
Julian pointed his fork at me in mock exasperation. “Still self-deprecating after all these years. When are you going to accept the fact that you’re brilliant and talented and that whatever you do is going to work out?”
“Well, my marriage sure didn’t work out,” I said dryly. Then I felt like an idiot, because I hadn’t meant to bring that up at all.
But Julian smiled with both sympathy and understanding. “Marriage is undoubtedly complicated.” He seemed about to say something, but then he took a sip of wine.
“Were you married too?” I asked.
Julian gazed down at the plate of herbed pasta that had just been placed between us. “Actually I still am,” he said.
Chapter 25
WHAT?”