Tilting at Windmills Read online

  “Uh . . . oh . . .” were the sounds that escaped from Annie’s mouth. Then she gave me a look I’ll never forget as long as I live. How best to describe it, I can’t truly say, but I would bet it was similar to the expression on my face when I’d discovered Maddie in bed with that hairy bastard Justin Warfield. Betrayal isn’t a look; it’s a feeling. But eyes being the window to the soul, I could see it.

  “Annie, this isn’t—”

  She cut me off, fast. “Isn’t what? What it looks like? Don’t throw that crap at me. Oh, Christ, Brian, I almost sent Janey upstairs to get you. That would have been . . . hell, maybe it would have been better. Brian . . .” Her voice faded then, and a tear slipped down her cheek. Her eyes focused on me as though burning a hole through me; then she turned to Maddie.

  “Was he all you remembered?”

  “And more. You must have taught him some new tricks, honey.”

  “Maddie!” I screamed.

  Annie’s face quivered; I thought she’d break down right there. But instead, she turned around and slammed the door behind her. I heard her scramble down the stairs and out the door. The door to her truck slammed and I heard the tires squeal as the truck tore out of the driveway. All those sounds reverberated in my head, and somewhere in the chambers of my heart, too.

  I made no attempt to chase after her. She wouldn’t believe any story, not at this moment, and not with me in nothing but a towel. Both Maddie and I stared at each other, speechless. The grin she’d worn in Annie’s presence had disappeared, leaving a faint line of regret instead.

  “I’m sorry, Brian.”

  “No, you’re not,” I said, anger fueling me. “It’s what you wanted. It’s what you came to do, isn’t it? Get me back, at all costs? Isn’t that what Justin wanted you to do? Like you told me last night, Justin stands to lose millions if Voltaire drops him. Heck, if you’ve been passing off work as mine, then perhaps you’ll have a lawsuit on your hands, since it’s not what they’ve been paying for.”

  “Brian, it’s not like that, not at all.”

  “You know what, Maddie? I don’t believe you. Get dressed, get out of my bedroom, and get out of my life.”

  “I’m only interested in wearing one thing,” she said. “This.”

  And she thrust her arm out to me, spreading the delicate fingers of her hand so that I couldn’t miss what she wanted me to see. There, on her ring finger, was the most beautiful diamond ring I’d ever seen. And I’d know, since I had bought it myself, so many months before.

  “Whatever happened between us before, Brian, we can work it out. You love me, and I love you. We are a great team, and we’re meant for each other.”

  “What?” I gasped. “How can you honestly say that? My God, Maddie, you just ruined my life . . . a second time. Besides, what makes you think that ring—”

  “Don’t even try, Brian. I recognized it when I found it in your dresser drawer. How could I not? We picked it out together, right after Christmas. That day we walked through the snow and talked about our life together, our fantasy . . .”

  “That’s right, fantasy. As in not reality.”

  “But you bought the ring. You still have the ring.”

  “Maddie, forget it. Whatever we had, it’s over. It has been for a while, even longer than I realized.”

  She gazed down at the ring, then at the rest of herself, naked beneath a bunched-up sheet, trying to cling to what, I didn’t know. Maybe at that point, she was wondering, too. At last, she looked up at me, and her face was full of shock, like she’d been hit by a thunderbolt.

  Our eyes locked as the truth hit her. Then, she pulled the ring off her finger and tossed it onto the edge of the bed, where it bounced before falling to the floor. Oh, that ring. Bought months ago, during another lifetime, its meaning now completely revealed.

  Her hand went up to her open mouth, and a short, quick cry escaped her. “My God, what have I done?” she asked. “What have I done?”

  “You’ve destroyed yourself, Maddie. Yourself and everything you wanted from life. And now you’ve destroyed my life, too.”

  She stared back at me, stung by the words, hurt by the truth of them.

  I thought of my wondrous, beautiful Annie, so sweet, so trusting—thought, too, of the innocent way we’d met at the base of the windmill, and how that had all been ruined by the horrible scene that had just taken place in this room.

  There was nothing more to say, not between myself and Maddie. But me and Annie, I hoped that what we had, all we’d shared, was somehow salvageable.

  I grabbed my clothes and decided I had to at least try to repair the damage. So I left Maddie in my apartment, half dressed and fully shamed, and grabbed my car keys and dashed down the stairs. I drove as fast as I could to the farmhouse, skirting traffic laws and signs, hell-bent on finding Annie and showing her she had nothing to fear, nothing to lose.

  Annie’s truck was in the driveway when I got there. She couldn’t have been home more than ten minutes, at most. I jumped out of the car, slammed the door behind me, and marched onto the porch. Should I knock, should I just enter? Before I could make up my mind, the front door opened and there was Janey. Her lips trembled as a tear fell from her tiny blue eyes.

  “Hey, sweetie,” I said, bending down to her. “What’s wrong?”

  She said nothing, only threw herself at me, her short arms hugging me close and tight. I held her, shushed her crying, and tried to assure her that everything was okay, that everything would be fine.

  “No, it won’t,” she insisted, “Momma’s . . . she’s really upset, Brian . . . at you. I heard her. She said a bad word, and . . . why is Momma mad at you? Why, Brian? Why?”

  “It’s a misunderstanding is all, sweetie. We just need to talk, your mom and I. Where is she? Is she in her room?”

  Janey shook her head. “She told me not to tell.”

  “Good—that means she’s expecting me,” I said, and pulled myself free. I rose to my feet and went into the farmhouse, calling Annie’s name. There was no reply, no sound at all. And that was when it hit me.

  “Of course,” I said aloud, and went back outside, across the lawn, and down the hill. To the windmill.

  Today there was no breeze, the temperature was in the mid-eighties, and the humidity was high. Still, there was no doubt in my mind that Annie was hiding out in her own studio. I ran to the base of the windmill and slipped between the silent sails.

  I tried the door and, not surprisingly, found it locked. I pulled hard, but the lock wouldn’t give.

  “Annie! Annie! I’m not leaving, not until we’ve spoken.”

  I was staring up at the second floor, convinced that’s where she was. I was right; I could see her face reflected in the glass of the window. I paced as I tried to figure out a way to get to her, but it was my mind that came up with the solution. I grabbed hold of one of the sails and inserted my foot into the latticework, then my other foot, and before long I was halfway up the side of the windmill, feeling like a teenager sneaking back inside the house after a night out. In seconds, I had reached the railing of the catwalk and I hopped off and onto the deck. I circled around until I reached the little doorway. As far as I knew, there was no lock on this second level, and I was right.

  The door opened easily.

  Annie sat atop her stool. But she wasn’t painting. The canvas sat there covered. Instead, her arms were crossed and held tight against her body.

  “Hi,” I said for lack of something better to say.

  “You’re crazy,” she answered. “What if those sails had started to turn?”

  I shrugged. “Then you’d have a human windmill, I guess.”

  She found either the words or the image funny, since she managed a small smile. My guess was that the image of me, turning in the wind, the blood rushing to my head and then back to my feet, brought her some pleasure. No matter; I was glad to have the ice broken, and I took that as a good sign.

  “Can we discuss what happened?”
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br />   “It’s not going to change anything,” she said.

  “Maddie—she set me up. Set us both up.”

  “I’m not interested in discussing . . . Maddie. Brian, don’t you see? It’s not about Maddie, not really. It’s what she represents. She’s what you used to be, and what I suspect you somehow still want to be. You’ve had your fun, your little fantasy of running away from your real life, and now it’s time to go back. Face it, Brian: You don’t know what you want.”

  “That’s not true. I want you,” I said quickly.

  “No, you don’t. You want the image of me, the illusion. Brian, this life you’ve created, it’s not real. Deep down, I think you know that.”

  “You’re wrong. If anyone’s looking for a quick escape from what’s happened, I’d say it’s you.”

  “That’s your version of the truth, Brian.”

  “The truth? You want to know the truth? The truth is how I feel about you. The man I was six months ago is gone, that hurt and wounded man who ran from everything because he couldn’t face things. But look at me now, Annie—I’m not running away. I’ve run to something—to you. I’m fighting, right here, right now, for us. Dammit, I love you, Annie.”

  Then there was silence between us, and I knew why. For all the time we’d spent together, atop her lovely bluff, inside this windmill, at picnics and watching fireworks and in walks through the parks, and on bike rides through the countryside, never once had I used those three tiny but powerful words, and hearing them reverberate against the wooden walls of the windmill, I was taken aback. So was Annie. Neither of us knew what else to say.

  Finally, Annie spoke, and her words, I had to give her credit, were maybe more honest than mine. “I don’t think you ran away from one woman only to fall in love with another. Not now, not this soon, and not with me.” She paused, seeing the hurt on my face. “Oh, Brian, you and I—we got caught up in the moment, a time when you were needing solace and I was needing . . . companionship and affection and a sign that maybe I could be happy with another man. But look at what happened today. Brian, the trust isn’t there, and if the trust isn’t there, the love can’t be. Look, we could talk the day away and nothing would change, not where it really counts, deep inside the heart. I’m taking Janey away—for a short vacation; I think she needs it, and I know I do. We need time to think . . . about what tomorrow will bring. I believe you have some thinking to do, too. You have issues still to resolve, and Maddie’s presence in Linden Corners, well, it’s made all this undeniable. There can’t be any more running, Brian. For either of us.”

  “Isn’t that what you’re doing, Annie, running from . . . from us?”

  “Us,” her breath whispered. “I like the sound of that. Us. But Brian, do you really think we’re ready for what it means? Such a small word, but such a big meaning. There’s still so much between you and me, issues that will keep us from really falling in love. Those issues need to be taken care of before we can see if there’s more here than just a summer fling. You said just now that you love me. If that’s true, Brian, then show me.”

  Show her. I knew there was hope yet, despite the damage Maddie had caused. “You’re not closing the door, then, Annie, are you?”

  “It’s closed, yes, but not locked.”

  “So what am I to do?”

  “Only you know what you want, Brian, deep inside. Now, though, you need to face those feelings, make them come to the surface, where they can no longer do you or anyone else any harm.” Then she leaned in and kissed me with such tenderness. “Figure out your life, and then we can figure out . . . us.”

  I turned to go, then remembered a promise I’d made, one that now kept my feet from moving. “What about Janey?” I asked, my voice soft in the wind. “After what happened at the hardware store . . .”

  “Janey . . . she’ll be fine. The trip I’d planned, maybe it will help ease the change. When we return . . .”

  “Maybe I’ll have returned, too,” I said.

  “Lots of maybes,” Annie said. “Maybe too many.”

  But within the word maybe was the whisper of another, more promising word. Between us, Annie and myself and Janey, there remained the sense of hope.

  TWELVE

  You know it’s ninety-one degrees out there?”

  “Yeah?”

  “And it’s only nine in the morning.”

  “So?”

  “So, my point is that only Wall Streeters and idiots are putting on suits today. We’ve got a projected high of one hundred and two, and the humidity is already at one hundred percent. You’re not gonna stick to the sidewalk—you’re gonna melt.”

  John had a point, I thought, as I pulled the tie around my neck. I straightened it, then smiled in satisfaction. I reached for the jacket on the hanger, slipped it on, and checked out the whole ensemble in the floor-length mirror.

  “You look great, Mr. G-fucking-Q. Christ, Brian, why are you doing this?”

  “Because . . . well, because I have to. For Annie, and for Janey.”

  “Ah, yes, the insta-family.”

  “That’s not fair, John.”

  “Fuck,” he said simply.

  “Nice mouth. I knew I missed you for a reason.”

  “Okay, pal. Sorry. Support is what you need, support is what you get.” His mouth raised in a devilish grin. “You promise me every gory detail?”

  “It’ll seem like you were there.”

  There referred to the offices of the Beckford Warfield Group. The date was August 10, and it was one of the hottest days of the hottest summers New York had seen in years. Despite the objections of my best friend, I was returning to what he’d come to think of as the scene of the crime. Too bad, was my response. For the past few months, John had insisted that in leaving New York City I had run away—from my problems, from my life—and I had dismissed his remarks. So now I had returned to the city I’d fled, ready to finally confront all of my unresolved issues, and now he was telling me what a fool I was. Nice to know that the only constant in my life was John’s inconsistency.

  “Good luck” were John’s parting words. And I’d need it. Because at ten o’clock I had an appointment with none other than the mighty Justin Warfield.

  I left the apartment at nine-fifteen, giving myself plenty of time to get to Midtown. Once outside, I realized how right John was about the weather. In seconds, I was dripping with sweat. I couldn’t find a cab, so I joined the masses and went down into the subway, which, while waiting on the platform, felt a good twenty degrees warmer than street level. Thankfully, it wasn’t a long wait for the number six train, and I stepped into a crowded but air-conditioned car.

  I had not missed the overcrowded transit system, the crush of strangers against me, or the ritual of scrambling to get to work each morning. In fact, I was grateful that I had to go only three stops. When the train screeched into the station at 59th and Lexington, I shuffled my way through the clot of passengers and then found my way to the stairs that led to the N train. I got on again—along with a teeming horde of others—and we were off, rattling down the tracks toward the West Side. I got off at 49th Street and joined the sweaty stream of New Yorkers as they headed topside. How I had lived like this day after day, year after year, was suddenly incomprehensible to me.

  At street level, I headed to Broadway and 50th, bypassing the overpriced deli I’d always stopped at for a bagel or muffin on my way to the office. Food wasn’t on my mind this morning. Instead, I walked along and replayed the phone conversation I’d had with Justin four days ago. He’d taken the call immediately, unctuousness seeping from every pore of his body. Couldn’t wait to see me; how about tomorrow?; not doable, huh?; whenever, buddy; name the time. I did, and now it was just fifteen minutes until our face-to-face. Uncertainty paralyzed me. In all those years of playing corporate drone, no other meeting had held such importance for me, no other meeting had had so much riding on it. My future was before me. And this time, I was going to meet it head-on.

  I�
��d left Linden Corners on the seventeenth of July, the day after Annie and Janey had gone for a vacation. Watching them go had been the hardest thing I’d done since I’d made the decision to leave New York City. Now, it was as though those two events were conspiring against me, mocking me until I could do nothing but take the reins, take control. And that was what I was going to do now. I was reminded of that last day I’d seen Annie, a day without wind and energy, a day when the sails of the mighty windmill were silent and unmoving, as though its life were on hold. Just like mine and Annie’s. But there I sat, on the roof of my car—atop Brian’s Bluff, as Annie had dubbed it—waiting for a breeze, hoping for some sign of life. At some point, I gave up waiting, and I left town the next day with about as much fanfare as I’d entered it, speaking only with Gerta. The bar needed a new keep.

  A week alone gave me time to think as I finally made my way up the coast of Maine. Time and the open road had cleared my mind of the clutter of the past six months, and finally I knew what I needed to do. Annie had been right about one thing: I needed to resolve certain issues before we could pursue a future, our future.

  I arrived on the eighteenth floor at nine-fifty and was met by a receptionist I didn’t recognize and who didn’t recognize me. But my name rang a bell with her, since I had a meeting with the chairman. That was the title she used, and I refrained from comment. I took a seat in the lobby, watched people walk by, and realized how much had changed in such a short time. No one looked familiar. It was like seeing a play for the second time, and even though the set was the same, all the actors were different.

  “Mr. Duncan? Mr. Warfield is ready for you. If you’ll come this way?”

  I followed the shapely blonde down the corridor and was ushered into Justin’s sanctum sanctorum. That, at least, hadn’t changed—all thick woods and framed prints, very tasteful, very masculine. Those latter two descriptions could also have been used to describe Justin Warfield himself, who rose when the door opened and I was announced.