hot and miserable like me? Hungry? Hurt? Was he frightened of what might happen? Was he worrying about me? Was I wrong to insist on doing this? Did I make things worse for him by taking some risks, instead of sitting safely at home? Could I have sat safely at home?
I knew the answer to the last question. No. They may also serve who only stand and wait, but that wouldn't work for me. I was a doer. I always had been. If Dom and Rosie hadn't helped me find this job, if Jack Leonard had locked me out of the operation completely, I would have found my own way in. It sounded mushy to say that this was about love, but it was. Besides, what comments about love and commitment didn't sound mushy? In our society, people might be allowed to complain, but they weren't encouraged to talk about the good things, the happy things, the solid, underlying relationships that make life work. We're allowed to be miserable, frustrated, complaining, and angry, but not to be happy. Andre and I were happy.
I hadn't wanted to let Andre into my life; after I lost my husband, David, I'd sworn never to fall in love again. But in he had come, forceful and persistent. Comforting and good to me. I hadn't thought so at first. When Andre showed up on the doorstep, investigating Carrie's murder, I disliked him. If there's an opposite to "hit it off right away," that's what we did. I thought he was pushy, insensitive, and rude. He thought I was being a prissy obstructionist who really didn't want to find out what had happened to my sister. He pushed me over the edge when he forced me to look at the pictures of my sister's body, showing in graphic detail how she had died. I stormed out of his office, sick with horror.
Later, he showed up at Carrie's apartment, which I had been cleaning out, bringing dinner as a peace offering. It was an uneasy truce. After what he'd done, I didn't entirely trust him, and because I'd tried to keep things from him, to protect Carrie's privacy, he didn't entirely trust me. But we've come a long way since then. He still can't help being too protective and I still can't help being a bit too assertiveâwe're both oldest childrenâbut we're working on it. Not long ago, walking along the beach in Hawaii, where I'd gone for business, I realized that whatever our difficulties of personality, career, and geography, I wanted Andre in my life permanently, and was willing to make some sacrifices to make that happen. Was this my sacrifice?
I straightened my pillow and lay down again, closing my eyes. I had to get some sleep. Day two in my life as Dora the waitress would be starting in less than six hours, but I'd reached that state where I was too exhausted to sleep. I'd just drift off and I'd find myself awake again. The sheets felt scratchy. My body ached and I couldn't gulp my usual Advil or soak in a warm bath. A determined mosquito made repeated forays after blood. The stiff canvas shades rustled too loudly. I was hot and sweaty. Tomorrow I'd have to get a fan.
The noise of the shades was driving me crazy. I threw off the covers and went to put them up. Got to the window and realized I already had. That rustling wasn't the shades at all. Cautiously, I peered out into the night. It was so dark all I could see was shadows on shadows. But one of the shadows was right beside my car. And it was moving. I watched the shadow circle the car, trying all the doors, trying the trunk, before picking up something and scraping at one of the windows. Someone was trying to break in.
My purse wasn't down there. Tonight it was up here with me. And I had no way of knowing whether this was any more sinister than someone trying to steal a car or whatever might be in it. Maybe that was how they greeted all newcomers in the town of Merchantville. A little welcoming vandalism. But with all the tourists about, they didn't need to pick on a poor waitress. I grabbed my shorts, tucked in my nightshirt, and went pounding down the stairs. Without even
I knew the answer to the last question. No. They may also serve who only stand and wait, but that wouldn't work for me. I was a doer. I always had been. If Dom and Rosie hadn't helped me find this job, if Jack Leonard had locked me out of the operation completely, I would have found my own way in. It sounded mushy to say that this was about love, but it was. Besides, what comments about love and commitment didn't sound mushy? In our society, people might be allowed to complain, but they weren't encouraged to talk about the good things, the happy things, the solid, underlying relationships that make life work. We're allowed to be miserable, frustrated, complaining, and angry, but not to be happy. Andre and I were happy.
I hadn't wanted to let Andre into my life; after I lost my husband, David, I'd sworn never to fall in love again. But in he had come, forceful and persistent. Comforting and good to me. I hadn't thought so at first. When Andre showed up on the doorstep, investigating Carrie's murder, I disliked him. If there's an opposite to "hit it off right away," that's what we did. I thought he was pushy, insensitive, and rude. He thought I was being a prissy obstructionist who really didn't want to find out what had happened to my sister. He pushed me over the edge when he forced me to look at the pictures of my sister's body, showing in graphic detail how she had died. I stormed out of his office, sick with horror.
Later, he showed up at Carrie's apartment, which I had been cleaning out, bringing dinner as a peace offering. It was an uneasy truce. After what he'd done, I didn't entirely trust him, and because I'd tried to keep things from him, to protect Carrie's privacy, he didn't entirely trust me. But we've come a long way since then. He still can't help being too protective and I still can't help being a bit too assertiveâwe're both oldest childrenâbut we're working on it. Not long ago, walking along the beach in Hawaii, where I'd gone for business, I realized that whatever our difficulties of personality, career, and geography, I wanted Andre in my life permanently, and was willing to make some sacrifices to make that happen. Was this my sacrifice?
I straightened my pillow and lay down again, closing my eyes. I had to get some sleep. Day two in my life as Dora the waitress would be starting in less than six hours, but I'd reached that state where I was too exhausted to sleep. I'd just drift off and I'd find myself awake again. The sheets felt scratchy. My body ached and I couldn't gulp my usual Advil or soak in a warm bath. A determined mosquito made repeated forays after blood. The stiff canvas shades rustled too loudly. I was hot and sweaty. Tomorrow I'd have to get a fan.
The noise of the shades was driving me crazy. I threw off the covers and went to put them up. Got to the window and realized I already had. That rustling wasn't the shades at all. Cautiously, I peered out into the night. It was so dark all I could see was shadows on shadows. But one of the shadows was right beside my car. And it was moving. I watched the shadow circle the car, trying all the doors, trying the trunk, before picking up something and scraping at one of the windows. Someone was trying to break in.
My purse wasn't down there. Tonight it was up here with me. And I had no way of knowing whether this was any more sinister than someone trying to steal a car or whatever might be in it. Maybe that was how they greeted all newcomers in the town of Merchantville. A little welcoming vandalism. But with all the tourists about, they didn't need to pick on a poor waitress. I grabbed my shorts, tucked in my nightshirt, and went pounding down the stairs. Without even
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