Tilting at Windmills Read online

  PRAISE FOR JOSEPH PITTMAN AND TILTING AT WINDMILLS

  “Pittman presents a more unique poetry, characters of a different sort of promise and conflict, plus a plot that flows with gentle literary allusion.”

  —Romantic Times

  “TILTING AT WINDMILLS is a poignant romance of heartbreak and second chances . . . Joseph Pittman’s TILTING AT WINDMILLS is a beautifully written romance that tugs at the heartstrings. In-depth characterization, a poignant tale of love, and an old windmill make TILTING AT WINDMILLS a must-read.”

  —Romrevtoday.com

  “Pittman’s portrait of small-town life is romantic, yet the strong and realistic characters who populate the town are the novel’s great strength.”

  —The Denver Post

  Books by Joseph Pittman:

  A Christmas Wish

  Tilting At Windm ills

  When the World Was Small

  Legend’s End

  California Scheming: A Todd Gleason Crime Novel

  London Frog: A Todd Gleason Crime Novel

  TILTING AT WINDMILLS

  JOSEPH PITTMAN

  KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.

  http://www.kensingtonbooks.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  PRAISE FOR JOSEPH PITTMAN AND TILTING AT WINDMILLS

  Books by Joseph Pittman:

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  PROLOGUE

  PART ONE - MARCH

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  PART TWO - APRIL

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  PART THREE - MAY - JUNE

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  PART FOUR - JULY - A UGUST

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  EPILOGUE

  Teaser chapter

  Copyright Page

  For my parents,

  GERARD AND ROSEMARY PITTMAN

  Fortune is guiding our affairs better than we ourselves could have wished.

  —CERVANTES, DON QUIXOTE

  PROLOGUE

  Seasons came and seasons went until countless years had passed and the men who had crafted her, labored in the hot sun to build the magnificent windmill, were like the wind itself, blown into the past, into the memories we coin as history. As for the windmill, it was allowed to fall into disrepair for too long a time, and the once-heralded landmark—a classic token of a lost era—became nothing more than an eyesore to a generation that no longer embraced its ancestry. There was talk, and not just once, of tearing down the old windmill.

  Until she came along. The woman who loved the windmill and restored it to its former beauty and grace. At last, the wind would again pass through its sails, a familiar friend returned to define an otherwise lost landscape. She thought it sacrilegious to deprive the windmill of its true purpose, and by restoring its spirit to the building, she breathed vibrant new life into the community around it. She could never know, though, never imagine, that her love for the creaky old structure would inspire a sense of mutual caring and nurturing—even love—among the townsfolk. But it would, even in the face of awful tragedy and sorrow. The windmill would generate an invisible power of healing—and would bring together two most unlikely souls.

  The sound was the hollowness of artificial life. The smell was the antiseptic odor of life held in the balance. The staccato beep of the heart machine, the lingering hiss of the breathing apparatus. No, she wasn’t gone, but neither was she fully here. Rather, she lay dreaming in her own private world. Her eyes were closed, her mouth, too—around a small tube.

  Seated beside her, he thought he could detect a smile. In reality, the plastic tubing had caused an upswing of her lip, a false sign of consciousness. Otherwise, her features were devoid of animation; she had little color, too. What did register was an inner warmth, and that passed through her hands, her strong but somehow delicate fingers, to his. Entwined forever, like their lives.

  It was after midnight and even though visiting hours were long over, he remained, not ready to leave her side. He was waiting for a sign. For all the words he’d spoken, aloud, silently, those tender expressions of love he had whispered into her ear, she had failed to respond. He assumed, and perhaps not wrongly, that she did not detect his presence.

  “Hang in there. Please.”

  It was not the plea of the desperate or the wallowing of the guilty. He spoke merely with a sense of hope.

  “Mr. Duncan? Maybe you need some rest.”

  He was about to protest to the duty nurse who had appeared. But doesn’t everyone put up an argument, only to eventually relent? He was too tired to argue. So with a simple kiss to the still woman’s forehead, mindful of the bandages and bruises, he left the room. He was not yet ready to leave the hospital; the wound was still too new and answers too few. He was about to ask the nurse to page her doctor when the doctor appeared around the corner. He held a chart and was closely examining it.

  “Dr. Savage?” he asked.

  The kind man, an elderly soul with a comforting sawbones appearance and a stethoscope dangling, proplike, around his neck, stopped, offered a smile.

  “Still here, I see.” Then, with a gentle touch of hand to shoulder, he repeated the nurse’s instructions.

  “Get yourself some rest. There’s nothing you can do now. Little we can do, except monitor her progress. The surgery went well, yes, but it’s too early for predictions. She’s not ready to wake; her body knows what’s best right now.” He paused, as though thinking of what else to offer, something positive. “There’s a little girl?”

  He nodded, and understood. Excusing himself with thanks that sounded as hollow as her breathing had, he left the hospital and drove the twenty miles along blackened roads back to the farmhouse, where he hoped he was needed.

  There was that word again. Hope.

  As it turned out, he was needed.

  Cynthia, her closest neighbor and friend, had stayed with Janey, the aforementioned little girl, who was now in bed but wary of sleep, of the dark, even at this late hour.

  He entered the dimly lit room and was grateful that it fit his mood and hid his emotions. Easing down on the soft mattress, smoothing the rainbow-patterned quilt, he stared at the curious and sweet seven-year-old. He gently brushed her blond hair out of her eyes, smiled when it fell back in protest. It was a bit wild and unruly, not unlike this precious little girl. Snuggled deep into her bed, she appeared the picture of calm. He knew, though, she was scared.

  “How’s Momma?”

  What to say? “She’s doing what you should be doing.”

  “You mean sleeping.”

  He nodded.

  “I want to see her. I didn’t get my good-night kiss,” she said with the barest hint of a pout. She wasn’t a pouter by trade.

  “Just so happens, I brought a kiss home from your mom,” Brian said, and bent down to kiss the girl on her forehead. He imagined his lips as a conduit, keeping alive the unbreakable connection between mother and child.

  The soft touch brought a comforting smile to the little girl’s lips. “I’m not very tired. Will you tell me a story?”

  “Sure,” he said, knowing she was beyond tired and that once he began the story, she’d slip into dreamland, where, hopefully, the violent memories of today would fail to reach her. “What kind of story?”

  “A girl story,” she insisted.

  Cynthia was standing in the door frame. Brian turned to her for help. “What’s a girl story? Like one about a princess?”

  Cynthia smiled when Janey said, “Yea
h, yeah, where the beautiful princess falls in love and is quite happy in the end.”

  Brian thought first of “Sleeping Beauty,” then dismissed it as quickly as the idea had come to him. Not the time for such a story. So he opted for a story of love in the face of great odds and made sure it had a happy ending, because Janey needed to hear one and so did he. But as his voice spoke the words as they came to him, his mind played a different dialogue, a true story of how he’d met his own beautiful princess and fallen in love. Did they have an ending, one in which they would both be, as Janey had stated in her very grown-up way, “quite happy”? That was still to be decided, and it did not wholly depend on her mother’s waking. It depended, too, on the power of love, of life.

  Eventually, Janey drifted off to sleep. Outside, crickets sang their lullaby, and the wind lay dormant now.

  Thirty minutes later, Cynthia left for her own farmhouse and husband and her own life, leaving Brian alone on the back porch, staring up at the starry night, the sky so still and different from that which had radically changed everything earlier this day. Yesterday now, he mused, remembering the hour. The view was different tonight, the landscape so suddenly changed, so empty. He journeyed off the porch and through the high late-summer grass, the cold dew stinging his bare feet as he reached the crest of the hill. From there, he stared down, and the sight he wished to see—the mighty and magnificent windmill—was only a figment of his imagination. Tonight it was mighty and magnificent only in its wreckage.

  Here, in the shadows of the night, as the windmill lay in ruins, a jumbled mess of broken, torn, scorched wood, Brian Duncan tried to shut out the horrible pictures that came to him and instead tried to focus on the good, the wondrous, the other events of the recent past, when life had suddenly and inexplicably changed forever. Dropping to the grass, staring ahead but not really seeing, he hoped with all his heart that she would awake.

  Understanding the complexities of love, the tragedies of life, was never easy, and he hoped, too, in his tale of yesterday that there lay a clue. Because what was tomorrow, after all, without someone to share it with?

  PART ONE

  MARCH

  ONE

  For the first time in weeks, my alarm sounded and woke me from a deep sleep. Instinctively, I reached over and slammed down the snooze button. Even still, I remained awake and excited. Today there was purpose. Today I would reclaim the life I’d been forced to put on hold.

  Reclaim. That was a good word, inspirational and fitting for this morning on which, after a short sabbatical, I found myself returning to the pressures of my hard-earned career. Willingly, eagerly, and with determination.

  From my vantage point on the bed, I could see outside the window. Rain pelted the sidewalks, the fire escape, the window itself, and no doubt people below as they journeyed to work on this dreary Wednesday. It figured my first day back would not be made easy; the rain always seemed to bring Manhattan to a screeching halt. Weather be damned—my mood was upbeat, and not just because I was finally going back to work.

  Madison was expected back, too. Maddie.

  The alarm rang a second time and again I hit the snooze button, fearing I might possibly fall back to sleep. I’d been doing that a lot lately—but I had the excuse of being among the bedridden. I’d been sick. Past tense, I thought with grateful silence, having heard only yesterday my positive prognosis. I tried to share my good news with Maddie, who was away on an important business trip in St. Louis. Her phone rang four times before the hotel’s service picked up. I left a message, feeling certain that all had gone well with the presentation and that she was out celebrating with Justin Warfield—her boss and, incidentally, mine as well.

  I checked the clock—8:07, just three minutes before the alarm would go off again. This was New York time, Eastern Standard, and too early to call anyone here, much less someone in the Midwest. Sharing our mutual good fortune, as well as learning when her plane was due, would have to wait.

  So, the rainy weather notwithstanding, I had two good reasons for getting up this morning—the return of my health and the return of the woman I loved. I threw back the blankets and got out of bed, flung my thick robe over my T-shirt and boxers, and padded into the living room. I opened the blinds and looked out at 83rd Street. Yup, a crappy day was brewing, but it wasn’t going to bother me.

  For the next hour, I busied myself with the mundane. Showered, shaved, brushed my teeth, and ran a comb through my dark brown hair. Staring at myself in the mirror, I was still thrown by how skinny I looked. Not that I was ever overweight, but with my six-foot frame, losing more than a few pounds really showed. I’d been forced to cut fatty foods and alcohol from my diet, and now I was barely pushing 165 pounds. For the past six weeks I’d been out of commission, recovering from a particularly intrusive case of hepatitis, which had attacked my liver and my life. I was wracked by bouts of sheer exhaustion, loss of appetite, and a host of other symptoms that basically came and went whenever the hell they felt like. No medicine, no pills, just lots of rest and the patience of a saint. It was my first “real” illness, not a cold or some kind of influenza, a real virus with a nasty kick, and if it taught me one thing, it’s that I’m not a kid anymore. The time had arrived (my doctor proclaiming it long overdue) for me to start treating myself better: diet, exercise, the clean routine for a healthy working machine. No more doughnuts on the run for ol’ Brian Duncan—now I ate grapefruit in sections and whole-grain cereals, and it was a change my friends wouldn’t believe. Sometimes if you’re not willing to change your bad habits, something comes along and forces the issue. They call them cosmic two-by-fours. And I had been smacked head-on.

  Enough. Point is, I now had breakfast dishes to clear away, and I did so, and then decided it wasn’t so early that I couldn’t go ahead and call St. Louis. The number was by the phone. I quickly punched in the digits, and soon the phone was ringing at the Adam’s Mark. A moment later, I was put through to room 809.

  Maddie picked up the phone on the third ring; there was a slight delay before I heard her murmured hello.

  “Hey, it’s me.”

  “Hi, Brian.” Her voice sounded groggy. I’d called too early. “What time is it?”

  “Nine here. I guess eight your time.” I paused. “Let me guess—I’m your wake-up call.”

  Levity was dangerous when Maddie lacked sleep.

  “It was a late night. Umm, Brian, can we talk when I’m back?”

  “Sure. Can I pick you up at the airport?”

  “Brian—you know Justin’s arranged for a limo.”

  “Right—sorry. Guess I’m eager to see you. How about dinner? I’ve got—”

  She interrupted me. “Look, Brian, I’m half asleep. It’s been a busy week and I need to catch up on some sleep. I’ll call you—tomorrow. I probably won’t be back until late tonight. Thanks for understanding.”

  “Okay, ’bye,” I said, and quickly added, “I love you.”

  Not quickly enough. She’d already hung up, and my words hung dead in the air.

  I replaced the receiver and thought for a second that something seemed off about our conversation. Not until I was dressed and on my way out the door did it hit me. She hadn’t asked about my health. My health. I tried to pinpoint what had caused this giant setback.

  Back in late January, the public relations agency that employed me, the well-respected Beckford Group, was among a select few agencies up for a big lucrative health-care account. Our president had chosen to wine and dine the prospective new client’s representatives and he’d brought along his top two people, namely me and Madison Chasen, a fellow account director who happened to be my girlfriend of three years. The restaurant had been our choice, and so Maddie had picked Sequoia, one of Manhattan’s newest and, in her words, toniest restaurants. This was surprising new vocabulary territory for her, and it showed how modern this classic Southern belle had become. Me, I was from the suburbs of Philadelphia and knew little about the posh and the privileged, and that
suited me fine. If Maddie was the social climber of our happy couple, I was perfectly content holding the ladder.

  Justin Warfield, our fortysomething president, had been wooing this particular client for months, enticing them with our past success in the field of health-care public relations. He also liked the idea of a get-to-know-each-other dinner, because he knew it was the personality of the agency that would seal the deal for us. Entertaining clients over an expensive meal had won Justin many accounts, and he was certain it would yet again yield the same lucrative results. Dinner was a big hit, with Dominick Voltaire and his team of associates walking away feeling even better about us than before, and we’d felt good about the possibility of their choosing the Beckford Group to handle the multimillion-dollar launch of a new hypertension drug. Everyone went home in the best of spirits and quite full from the meal.

  Me, I went home and puked my guts out.

  When, three days later, I was still out of the office on sick leave and thinking I had the flu, I went—actually, was dragged—to the doctor’s office. Either the oysters I ate were contaminated or the person handling the oysters wasn’t practicing good hygiene; the doctor was fairly certain I’d contracted hepatitis A. Not a fatal disease, but one that could lead to complications if not properly monitored. For the weeks that followed, I took a short-term disability leave from the office and lay about my apartment like a miserable wreck, staring at the television. Between intermittent naps, I also worked on providing Justin and Maddie with brilliant ideas on how to get the powerful Dominick Voltaire to sign with us. And just this past Sunday, they’d flown out to St. Louis to make the final presentation—without me.