This is Part Three of a four-part story.
When he awoke in the morning, he was alone. Indirect light was streaming through the room's massive northwest window and from it he could see the tops of the dense, dry Santa Monica Mountains rising to meet the morning sky. He wanted to use the bathroom, but when he peeled back the bedcovers, he realized he was naked.
He looked around the room with momentary confusion and then found his clothes folded neatly on the nightstand next to the bed, his shoes on the floor beside it. He remembered that when he fell asleep they were still strewn haphazardly on the floor around the large bed.
The digital clock on the opposite nightstand read 7:37. That was quite late for him. He didn't usually sleep past 6:00. It was not really a necessity anymore to rise so early.
Fig Hill
didn't even open until 11:00 a.m., and if he worked a day shift, he didn't need come in until 10:00. But when he was a principal, he was used to getting to school around 6:30 every morning. Getting up early had been part of his daily routine for as long as he could remember, and he saw no reason to change. In fact, it was early in the morning when he tried to get most of his writing done.
He found his boxer briefs among the clothes on the nightstand and stood up quickly and slipped them on. He thought maybe Caroline was in the bathroom, and despite the unabashed excesses of the night before, for some strange reason he didn't want her to see him naked in the morning light. His fears were unfounded, as he discovered the bathroom empty, so he used the toilet and, afterward, washed his hands and face. He was feeling just a little crusty.
He always took a shower, shaved, and brushed his teeth when he first awoke in the morning, so he was somewhat annoyed at himself for not having brought his overnight bag upstairs with him. He remembered being a bit preoccupied when Caroline and he had made their way into her bedroom. A tube of toothpaste sat on the vanity top, so he squeezed a dollop onto his index finger and did his best to brush his teeth with it. When he returned to the bedroom, he dressed quickly. Yesterday's clothes would do until he had a chance to shower.
He decided that Caroline must be downstairs, and despite the awkwardness that always seems inevitable the morning after the first night with a new paramour, he was excited to see her and looking forward with optimism to the promises of the new day.
As he descended the stairs to the main level of the house, he could smell the rich aroma of freshly brewed coffee, and it made him cheerful. Besides getting cleaned up, that was the other routine with which he began each day. It was nice to know that Caroline's mornings started the same way his did.
He entered the great room to see her lounging on the sofa, her feet up, a cup of coffee on the table in front of her, and the larger of his two manuscripts in her hands. She looked up from her reading to greet him, "Good morning, Chris!" She sounded even more excited than usual, and that, he thought, was a very good sign.
She was wearing a casual pair of cropped jeans, and a faded, grayish and white striped, tie-dyed sweatshirt with the sleeves pushed up above her elbows. She was barefoot and wore no makeup. For jewelry, she sported only a simple, leather bracelet on her right wrist. As she looked up at him, her dark eyes sparkled in the bright room.
"Good morning, Caroline." He smiled as he approached, and then bent down to kiss her politely on the cheek. "You got an early start on that", he said nodding without emotion toward the manuscript. He noted the page number that she was reading and realized she had only a dozen more pages to finish. Considering the length of the story, she had to have been reading for at least an hour and a half already.
"Oh, Chris, this is really wonderful! It really is! I'm almost done, but it's... my god... it's just so well written! I can't wait to finish. Grace -- the character as a metaphor -- that's fucking brilliant! There's so much going on! I love every word of it! It's really unlike anything I've ever read before! You've got this whole amazing style! How is it you're not a famous writer?"
He was embarrassed. Still, he smiled with genuine gratitude, even joy, but then deadpanned a sarcastic response, "Maybe it has something to do with the fact that you're the first person -- other than me -- to ever read that story, to read any of my stories!"
"That's crazy. That's just fucking crazy! Why in God's name have you been hiding your light under a bushel?" She was so excited that she jumped up and gave him a congratulatory hug. Before he could answer, her voice rang out again with frantic excitement, "Listen; I have to finish this! While I do, you go into the kitchen and get yourself a cup of coffee and some breakfast. You'll find everything you need in there. I need about 15 minutes. Go, go! Let me finish! Then, we'll talk. When you're done eating, I think we should call my publisher!"
He was a little taken aback by how quickly things had advanced, and he had to admit that the whole thing made him just a little nervous. On the other hand, what Caroline was proposing exceeded even
his
wildest expectations, expectations that had prompted him to write to her in the first place.
Still, the night before had also exceeded his wildest expectations, and there was something about the way in which Caroline had invited him into her life that led him to believe that he should just throw caution to the wind and ride the giant wave on top of which he suddenly found himself.
On the other hand, his marriage and career had taught him that there were no guarantees. He knew that in five minutes he could find himself submerged in an ocean of heartache. Still, for the moment, that possibility didn't really matter. When you've been drowning as long as he had, you're likely to trust whoever pulls you from the drink and resuscitates you.
When he got to the kitchen, he saw a huge array of things set out on the granite countertop. There was a veritable garden of fresh, sliced fruits -- strawberries, pineapple, cantaloupe, honeydew melon, grapes, and apples; several different types of bagels and cream cheeses; containers of orange, grapefruit, and cranberry juice; yogurt, oatmeal, and granola; a full cinnamon, coffee cake; a carton of skim milk, and a carafe filled with dark-roasted coffee, as well as cream and sugar to add to it. Next to all the food were clean plates, silverware, a cup and glasses. Next to the dishes was that day's edition of
The Los Angeles Times
.
He didn't usually eat much for breakfast -- most of the time, just a bowl of cereal and coffee. But for some reason, he was famished that morning. Everything looked really delicious, so he piled a plate full of fruit, an onion bagel with veggie cream cheese, a gigantic piece of coffee cake, as well as a glass of grapefruit juice and a cup of coffee with cream and sat down at the kitchen table to eat and read the paper.
He was nearly done eating when Caroline silently slipped up from behind him, dropping the manuscript on the table, as she wrapped her arms around his chest and shoulders. He stood up and turned around to accept the embrace and realized that she was crying. "Thank you, thank you!" she said with difficulty. Tears pooled in her eyes, and then rolled down her cheeks. "Thank you for letting me read your story! It's exceptional", she oozed deferentially. "And the ending! You manage a happy resolution without being maudlin or sentimental! I'm just in awe of what you've accomplished! My writing doesn't hold a candle to yours!" She drew his face to hers with both hands and kissed him. He could taste the salty tears on her lips.
He broke the kiss abruptly. He had to say something and fast. "Now, come on, Caroline. I mean, I'm glad you liked it, and I really appreciate the accolades and all, but that's just a ridiculous thing to say! You've won awards! You've sold hundreds of thousands if not millions of books! I haven't even published a story yet! I think because you know me and we... well, I think you have to consider the possibility that maybe you've lost your perspective, lost your objectivity on this story."
"No, I don't think so", she said shaking her head with certainty as she continued to hold his face in her hands. "I mean, it helps to know your own personal story. To realize that everything you put down on paper is a part of you, and that you're writing from an authentic, genuine place, but I've read enough manuscripts to know when fiction is honest and when it isn't, and regardless of whether the reader knows anything about you or not really doesn't matter. They're going to realize... they're going to recognize the truth in what you've written and, more importantly than that, the talent... it jumps right off the page!" She kissed him again. "How many stories have you written?"
