Chapter 5
Saturday 11:03 a.m.
I’m strolling along the busy mall trying to find my way through the aisles crowded with people as they glance at various glass window showcases.
I’ve already crossed Paul’s and Peter’s gifts off my list. I’ve got one for my mom and dad, too. Now, I only need to get something small for Sarah as well. And also something for Mark.
I squeeze past the bright, shiny watches and jewelry cases on the right and left, heading for the media section one floor up.
In my mind, though, I keep coming back to the poster I saw. The blue moon. Dark and intimidatingly beautiful. And my thoughts unmistakably swirl into a perfect—and alarmingly detailed—image of Sam’s face.
His eyes, broken pieces of dark blue crystals spreading in a circle around a deep well so infinite and beautiful I could dive in and stay without oxygen for days. They seemed distantly unfocused, but at the same time centered on me, caught in his arms. There was a half smile playing on his lips and it radiated all the way to his eyes, intensifying the blue even more.
“Can I help you?”
I look up to see a middle-aged woman, ironed wrinkles and perfect makeup, smiling at me. I’m standing in front of the jewelry window without even realizing it.
Oh, boy—I am losing it. I smile back at her. “I’m sorry, I was just sidetracked.”
I’m about to leave, but she says, “Well, why don’t you just have a look?”
I never was much of a fan of jewelry, but it occurs to me that I might find something for my sister. I look down at the exhibited pieces, the shine of gold and silver, pearls and diamonds, capturing the eye. My eyes move in a random search until suddenly I stop. I move closer to the countertop, leaning my palm on the spotless glass.
Picking up on this immediately, the saleslady unlocks the flat drawer, pulls out the tray, takes the necklace I was looking at and lays it on the glass surface in front of me.
“It’s gorgeous, isn’t it?” she says.
I can only nod.
She takes it and puts it in my hand.
“The color is just right for your skin complexion,” she continues. “Twenty-two karat gold with twenty-five percent copper. Also known as crown gold. And all of it accented with this beautiful blue stone.”
The necklace has a very soft golden hue with just a trace of red. The chain rings are small and flat; it smoothly falls and bends over my fingers. A blue stone is caged in the middle of my palm.
I point with a finger. “What is the—”
“Tanzanite. Thirteen-comma-seven carat. Deep saturated blue.”
Deep saturated blue . . . Like—
“It is very precious. The stone alone is worth more than eight thousand dollars.”
I look up at her, my eyes wide. Eight thousand dollars?
“Wow . . .” I quickly set the necklace on the glass in front of her.
“Do you want to try it on?” she asks.
“Oh, no!” I raise my hands in front of me. “I couldn’t afford it.”
She looks behind me and says, “Maybe, but perhaps your—” Then she frowns. “I thought . . .”
I look at her for a moment before slowly turning my head. The shopping center is full of people, mingling, crossing each other’s paths, or wandering around aimlessly, hoping to get inspired for a perfect gift.
I turn back to her. “Is everything all right?”
She takes a breath, still looking behind me. Then she looks at me and smiles exaggeratedly. “Never mind, dear. I just thought you were with somebody else, that’s all.”
She puts her hands down on the glass countertop and tilts her head. “You still don’t want to try it on?”
“No, thank you. And anyway, I’m not much into jewelry.”
“Even so, there’s always one piece that is made just for you.”
I look back down at the necklace. Yeah, well, not in this life.
I smile again and say, “I still need to get some Christmas presents. Goodbye! And thank you for showing it to me.”
“You’re welcome! Merry Christmas, God bless you!” she says as I turn to leave.
“Merry Christmas!”
***
I have four large bags, two in each hand, and they cut into my palms. I should have put on my gloves before I walked out of the bus. I turn onto my street. The ice hasn’t been cleared properly, and in this dimming light it’s hard to see where it is, so I take small steps, careful not to fall down.
I reach the staircase of my building and look around. The truck is gone. Must be that the moving’s done.
I walk up the entrance stairs and stop in front of the old wooden door, trying to pull out the keys while still holding the shopping bags. I’m fumbling inside my handbag until I reach the inevitable conclusion that it’s impossible.
I put the shopping bags on the floor and open my handbag to look for the keys again.
“Can I give you a hand?” I hear a deep voice behind me.
Sam.
I turn around. “Yes . . .” I mumble. “Thank you.”
He bends down and picks up my bags, but he keeps looking at me as he does it. For some reason, I find this extremely distracting.
He straightens, bags in each hand, ready to go. But I’m not moving. I keep looking at him.
He’s wearing the same black woolen cap as in the morning, and it frames his face beautifully. The strong jaw and high cheekbones make his face seem a bit rough, but it fits his physique and his height perfectly, as if it couldn’t be any other way.
Sam looks down the street, then back at me, a half smile on his lips. “Are we waiting for somebody?”
I drop back to reality, realizing I’ve been staring. “No! Sorry. Yes. Let’s get inside.” I dig into my bag, happy I’m hiding my shaky fingers. Why am I behaving like this?
I pull out my key ring, search for the entrance key, and open the door.
We walk in and the door closes loudly. It’s already warmer. I take off my cap and walk to the elevator, then press the elevator button. The metallic sound tells me it’s coming.
Ask him something. Ask him something!
“Ah . . . so, where are you from?” I glance at him, but quickly look back to the elevator door.
“I just came from the West Coast. I’ve got a new project here.”
“Ah . . .” I loathe my one-syllable responses.
He smiles and says, “If they’d told me it’s gonna be so cold here, I might have rejected it.”
“This is nothing. You haven’t seen the real winter yet.”
“Hmm. Maybe I shouldn’t unpack my boxes then.”
“No! I mean . . . the real cold only lasts for a few days . . . really . . .”
Stupid! Stupid! Stupid! I graduated with top marks from my doctorate program and this is what I’m saying? Stupid!
However, he doesn’t seem to notice, and continues, “Well, the cold is not a good enough reason to leave.”
The elevator is here and I push the old iron gate open. He walks in behind me, his height shielding the light from the ceiling lamp. He closes the door and the elevator starts with a hiccup, slowly rising upward.
“So, what do you do?” I ask, a tiny bit more confident now.
“I shoot people.”
I blink. “What?”
He smiles. “I’m a photographer. I shoot people, buildings, cars, nature—whatever the client needs.”
“Ah . . . that.” I smile, relaxing my shoulders a bit. “So… um… how long do your projects usually last?”
He shrugs. “Depends on the project. Sometimes a few months. Often, however, it’s just a few weeks.”
A few weeks? I feel a sharp needle getting too close to my bubble.
“But,” he continues, “it’s hockey season, and the Bruins are my favorite team. It’s a perfect time for me to come to Boston.”
“Yes, of course, the Bruins. They’re my favorite team, too,” I say, hoping he won’t go into any details, since I’ve never actually seen them play. Ice hockey is totally not my sport. Too many bruises, too much violence.
We reach the third floor all too soon. He opens the iron gate and we walk to my apartment. I keep looking sideways at him, embarrassed to face him directly, afraid he might see right through me, tell what I’m feeling right now.
We reach my door and he sets my bags on the floor.
“You’re all right from here?” he asks, straightening up, removing his black woolen cap.
“Yes, I’ll be—” Then I stop. His short black hair is heavily threaded with silver. “How old are you?” Oh, no! That shouldn’t have come out.
“Excuse me?” The half-smile on his face borders on astonishment.
I close my eyes. “I’m sorry, that was—” Rude!
“Unusual,” he says, lifting an eyebrow.
Please edit your thoughts before they reach your mouth, Jane! I open my eyes. “I’m sorry, I don’t usually ask these kinds of questions . . .”
His smile changes slightly. It means something else, says something else, but I can’t quite grasp it.
“So why is now any different?” he asks.
My mind goes blank. I—I don’t know.
I open my mouth to say something but nothing comes out. The hardcore edit I’ve somehow achieved has caused a traffic jam on the brain-to-mouth highway, and I’m lost for words.
His smile broadens, blue eyes shadowed by lowered eyelids. “Well, I’m not as old as I look.”
“No, no, I—I don’t think you look old at all. I mean, you look—” I take a breath, looking at his lips. They are slightly large for his face, soft colored, a coral haze to them, with a soft border between lips and the rest of the skin.
I swallow again and blink once, then look into his eyes again. You look—beautiful.
He raises his eyebrows, expecting a continuation.
“I wanted to say, you look around my age,” I say instead.
“Now, if I knew how old you are, I could tell you how close you are with your estimate.”
At first, I want to tell him, but then I say, “How old do you think I am?”
His lips spread into a smile. “Ah, a game! Okay—well, I’d say . . .” He looks at me but takes his time. He looks at my red hair pulled into a ponytail. He looks at the few freckles on my nose that still remain over winter. Then he looks at my lips, and his gaze lingers there.
And my body instinctively reacts. My heart speeds up, my palms start to sweat, and there is an unmistakable feeling deep down inside me. The craving. The need. The desire.
I know this feeling well.
And I haven’t felt it for years.
Then he looks at my eyes again and says, “I’d say you’re twenty . . . seven, give or take.”
Wow. I nod slowly. “That’s, um . . . pretty accurate. How did you know?”
“Tricks of the trade, I guess.” He looks down at my bags on the floor, then back at me. “So, are you all right from here?”
No. Why don’t you come inside? We could have a nice, long . . . talk. Together. “Yes, I’m fine. Thanks for your help!” I say, a bit out of breath.
“You’re welcome. Have a nice evening, Jane!” he says and quickly leaves.
I watch him unlock his door and disappear.
For a few more moments, I don’t move. Leaning on the frame of my door, I look at Sam’s closed door. I’m quite sure my mouth is still open, and my eyes feel dry too.
Then I take a quick breath and shake my head as I turn to my door. Right. Playtime’s over. Back to reality.
I walk into my apartment, and close the door; its squeak somehow helps me separate the “silly me” from the “clever me.”
“Silly me” gets me in trouble. And I don’t need that.
I lift my head, feeling the “clever me” coming back again.
See, that didn’t take too long, did it?
I smile to myself and walk into the kitchen.