a novel

"Nid yw'r swm gyda fi" "There is no company with me"

Welsh, taken from Enya’s Beneath the Waters.

People walk around the museum, taking in each piece in and of itself, never understanding how each disparate piece fits next to the other. They do not imagine the meanings of a Wyeth next to a Henry Moore sculpture. I don’t claim to know the meaning either, but there must be some reason why they’re placed there. The museum had asked me to come over for a consultation. It was a good break if I could get it. Designing websites is a pretty cutthroat business. Damn, I mean, even a 10 year-old with the right software and some know-how can do it. Hopefully I just do a better job. After meeting with the bigwigs, and some rather non-committal conversation, I decided to wander around the Japanese section. There’s something about Japanese art that is strangely comforting. I can’t exactly put my finger on it, but it helps to make all of the utter chaos and bullshit of the normal world just fade away.

"Hi."

I had seen her before at Josh’s opening at a small art gallery a week or so ago. It was her hair that I noticed first, the beautiful red hair that went down past her shoulders. I couldn't see her face for her hair at the gallery, and I wondered if she was concentrating or asleep. She seemed to focus mostly on the Chagall painting. I think it was "I and the Village" on loan from the Museum of Modern Art in New York. I looked at her now, realizing that I was never this lucky. "Oh, hi. How are you?"

She pushed her hair behind her ear. "Fine. Do you like Japanese art?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I do."

She smiled at me slightly. "Can I walk with you for a while?"

"Sure." This stuff never happened to me. I went along with her expecting the punch line at any moment.

We went through the Japanese section, then the Modern Art section. Neither of us actually said much, occasionally a comment on a painting, but that was about it. I didn't want to leave yet, and I was interested in her. What do you ask that doesn't sound like a line? I wanted some coffee, so I just went with that. "Do you want some coffee?"

"Sure, let me mark down where we're at." She reached in her bag and pulled out a map of the museum, marked our spot with a pen. I noticed there were several other marks on the map.

I was intrigued. "What's with the map?"

"I like to know where I've been."

"So what's next on the map?"

"I leave that to the next visit, then go with what feels right."

We had a cup of coffee in the museum restaurant and talked about art for a while. A very non-committal conversation.

She looked up at me. "Are you hungry?"

"Sure." Why not, what else did I have to do for the rest of the day?

We ordered sandwiches from the waitress. After eating, she rose to go. I stood up.

"Um, can I call you sometime?"

"Sure. Let me give you my number." She wrote her number on a napkin, smiled and gave it to me. "Thanks, I enjoyed walking through the museum with you."

"Me too."

"Bye."

I waved good-bye and ordered another cup of coffee. After an hour or so, I drove back to my apartment.

A couple of days later, after wandering through my apartment, unable to commit to any specific activity for any duration of time, I called her.

"Hello, this is…"

"Hi. I know who it is. I was wondering if you were going to call me."

At least that was a good sign. I must have made a decent enough impression that she wanted me to call. "Um, I was wondering, would you like to go out tomorrow night? We could go to the Shakespeare Theater, they're doing King Lear."

"No, let's do something else."

Great. I figured she would have loved Shakespeare. "Ok, what do you want to do?"

"Meet me at the coffeeshop on 33rd and Maple in an hour."

"Today?"

"Sure. Do you have a car?"

"Yeah, why?"

"Never mind. See you in an hour. Bye."

I went into my bedroom and put on a better shirt; decided I could get away with not shaving, and drove to the coffeehouse. She was having an iced tea when I got there.

"Hi. I got you an iced tea too. You look like a lemon and sugar person, am I right?."

"Thanks. Yeah, you’re right, lemon and sugar. Did you just get here?"

"Few minutes ago." She gave me a big smile. "Do you have anything planned for this afternoon?"

"No, nothing that can't wait. What do you have in mind?"

"Let's go."

"I haven't had two drinks of my iced tea."

"They’re portable, you know. C'mon."

We left the coffeehouse. She had two big bags with her.

"What's in the bags?"

She smiled and lowered her chin. "Never you mind. You'll see."

"Ok. Where are we going?"

"Go south out of town on the highway. I'll tell you from there."

We ended up out in the country at an old abandoned church. The door was off the hinges and the roof was in the process of collapse.

"What are we doing here?"

"Pictures."

"Pictures?"

"Yeah, pictures. Go stand over there by the doorway."

She pulled a high-end 35mm camera out of the smaller bag, and started snapping away. I didn't know what to do, so I stood there and looked at the inside of the church. Last attendance, 12.

"Ok, you don't have to stand there anymore. I'm done."

By the time I had walked back to the car, she had a picnic lunch spread out on a blanket.

I looked down at her placing plates on the blanket. The plates were next to each other, not across the blanket. This was going well. "This is a nice surprise. Good idea."

She smiled up at me. "I hoped that you would like it."

By late afternoon, the clouds had started rolling in, turning black.

"We'd better go."

"No, let's go for a walk. I'll put up my picnic stuff, we should have time."

The cemetery was about a half-mile away. The tombstones were mostly covered, and they all seemed to die young.

Then the rain came.

We arrived at my apartment in a flurry of rain, clouds pouring down like retribution from the gods. Her hair hung in rivulets down past her shoulders, cotton dress close to the skin. I said I would get a towel for her hair.

As I looked past the doorway I saw her skin, pale in the faint windowlight of a rainy day. She stood before me, waiting. The towel smoothed over her naked frame, each limb something new that I had never encountered, never seen a woman before.

"You're drenched. Come here."

She undressed me without saying a word, and the touch of her hands felt like silk. She took me by the hand and led me to the kitchen table.

"Do you have any tea?"

I made tea. I was naked, and I made tea, and didn’t ask any questions. There we sat, at my 50's Formica kitchen table, naked, drinking tea. I watched her hands move across the cup, they way her fingers wrapped around the cup, and how she cradled the cup like it was a sieve. She looked at me for a few minutes, got up and sat on the couch.

She sat reclining on my couch semi-wrapped in an old blanket, drinking her tea for what seemed like hours. She pulled the blanket closer to her shoulder. "Do you have some clothes I can borrow?"

"Sure, feel free. Bedroom's over there."

I sat at the kitchen table, drinking my tea, wondering what would happen next. She entered again wearing an old college sweatshirt and a pair of jeans.

"My shoes are soaked. Do you have anything I can put them in?"

"Sure, I'll get a grocery sack."

I drove her back to her place. It was in a better part of town than my apartment, a real street address, not an upper floor of a business like my place. The grass was new; flowers planted immaculately, typical upperscale subdivision. There was another car in the driveway.

She grabbed her bags. "Thanks. Can I call you later?"

"Sure. Do you have my number?"

"I got it from the telephone in your bedroom when I was changing. Bye."

With that she gave me a kiss and went into the house.

The phone rang at about 9:30 later that night.

"Hi." It was her.

"Hi."

"Are you busy?"

"No, not really." I put down my book and sat up. "Just doing some reading."

"What are you reading?"

"A Japanese novel. Pretty good, it isn't published in America."

Pause.

"Can I come over?"

"Sure."

"See you in 30 minutes."

I opened the window in the kitchen for the best view, and sat on the windowsill. A couple of glasses of wine later the cab arrived.

"Hi." She was wearing a large tan overcoat and a floppy Gilligan-type hat. Even dressed up like that, she was still very good looking.

"Hi. Come on in."

She put her coat and bag on the couch and sat down on the chair. She said nothing.

"What's up?"

"Please..."

"Ok, ok. Would you like some tea?"

"Do you have any wine?"

"Sure, if cheap Beaujolais is ok."

"That's fine."

I poured her a glass after I wiped it out. I never end up using more than one anymore. She started to say something, stopped, then said, "Are you doing anything right now?"

"Having a glass of wine with you."

"Grab your coat. I want to take you somewhere."

"Do you want me to drive?"

"Sure, I took a cab to get here."

I drove, she gave directions. We listened to a guy read a book, and then Prairie Home Companion on the way over. Thank God she like Garrison Keillor. Eventually, she had me turn into an alley next to a factory or something. It was a small place, parking in the back only, and only 1 beer light in the window. When we walked in the bartender put down his rag, walked over and waved a big hello.

"Hi Catherine, how are you doin'?"

"Good Bruce, how about you?"

"Fine, fine. Who's your friend here?"

Catherine introduced me and we ordered gin and tonics. She led me to a little side room that was sparsely populated with a few couples, some guys in suits, and a hooker. I think she was a hooker, anyway. I wondered who would end up with who tonight. A guy was playing the piano, something that was supposedly jazzy. When he finished, he waved to Catherine.

"Stay here, I'll be back in a few minutes."

Great, some other guy who she gets to talk to while I'm stuck in the background. Instead of saying hello, the guy gets up and she sits down at the piano.

It was then that I really heard her voice. It was something that had been haunting me since we first spoke. She played piano beautifully, but it was her voice that I heard. It was the kind of voice that makes you forget to breathe for a while.

After about an hour she sat back down. My gin and tonic was gone, the waitress had brought me another but I hadn't touched it.

She was sweaty, but radiant. "Not what you were expecting?"

"No, not at all. Do you do this often?"

She still hadn’t sat down. "When I need to. I used to play here all the time. Shall we go?"

"I haven't finished my drink. We haven't paid for them, either."

"Don't worry, Bruce will take care of it."

We got on our coats and drove back to my apartment. She didn't say anything, just looked out the window, watched the rain and hummed.

I kept looking at her looking out the window. "Um, do you want me to call you a cab?"

"No, that's ok."

"Do you want me to drive you home?"

"No."

"Ok, then, hat do you want to do?"

"I'll call a friend. Is it ok if I wait here?"

"Sure, make yourself at home. If it's ok with you I'm going to check my e-mail."

She laughed, and I heard that voice again.

"What's so funny?"

She’d flopped onto the couch, legs curled up beneath her. "If you're a bohemian poet, you're doing a lousy job. E-mail."

"Who said I'm a bohemian poet?"

"You went to the poetry reading at the art gallery. I'm figuring you for a bohemian poet. After all, look at this place. Books everywhere, no TV, that's bohemian poet."

"I don't need a TV, I have a computer. I'm a web page designer. I don't need an office and all of that other crap. I do a little consulting and teaching, so I have offices there, not here. By the way, what do you do for a living?"

She looked nervous, reached for her coat and stood up. "I think my friend's here. She gets mad when she has to wait."

After another brief kiss, she left.

I left messages for her, but she never responded. Nobody at the club had seen her for weeks. I gave up and threw myself into work.

She called on a Sunday morning.

"Hi."

"Hi." I could tell nothing from her voice. "Where have you been?"

Silence.

"Are you busy?"

I took off my glasses and rubbed my eyes. "No, just reading."

"Still reading Japanese authors?"

"No, a biography of Truman."

"Are you sure you're not busy?"

"Nope. Do you want me to come get you?"

"Sure. You remember where I live?"

Are you kidding? Of course I remember. "Yep, be there in about 30-45 minutes."

I don't remember the drive over there. I'm assuming there were stoplights and cars.

The doorknocker on the house read "Spencer" and was heavy brass. Kind of ostentatious for a house in this neighborhood. It was heavy in my hand when I knocked. The door opened sooner than I expected.

"Hi, are you ready?"

"Sure, car's still running."

"Good, lets go."

When the door closed I could smell her perfume again.

"Where are we going?"

"Just go to the stoplights on 44th and I'll tell you from there."

We went past the club and ended up at the art gallery again. "Why here?"

"I just want to look for a while."

As we walked through the gallery, she put her hand in mine. I looked at her face. "Do you want to tell me anything?"

"Yes, but..."

"But what?"

"It's difficult. Let's go."

Again we drove and she didn't say anything, only changed the radio station over and over until she found a classical station. I didn't know where she wanted to go so I drove to my apartment.

"Do you want to come up for a drink?"

"Sure."

I poured the wine and sat across from her. She sat cross-legged on the couch.

She ran her hands through her hair and looked out the window. "I never meant for this to happen."

"What?"

"This."

I fingered the stem of my wineglass, then looked at her eyes. "Can I ask you some questions?"

"It's better if you don't."

"You're not a hooker, are you?"

"God, no."

"Well?"

"I'm married."

"I wondered about that."

"He's a stockbroker. We met in high school. After my parents died I just needed someone."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't." She got up and looked out the window.

"How long have you been married?"

"A year and a half. He's been gone for 3 months."

"What do you mean gone?"

I watched her examine the toes of her socks, picking at the loose strings. She didn’t look up. "Gone. Just gone. Left. Went away."

"When's the last time you saw him?"

"That doesn't matter anymore."

"It does to me."

"Why?"

"Because." Because I’d been burnt before. Because I wasn’t going to get involved if, well, just because dammit.

"He left with some female business executive on a trip to the south. I haven't seen him since."

"So why don't you divorce him?"

"What do I have that's mine? All I have is because of him. Except my piano. That was my mother's."

Silence. I couldn’t tell if she was crying, but she swept her hair from her face.

"So what do you want to do now? Catherine? What now?"

"A cup of tea would be nice."

"Ok."

I went into the kitchen and made tea. She sat back down on the couch, and wrapped herself in the blanket. It was then that I noticed she had my jeans on again.

"Everything is in his name."

"What?" She had startled me. I almost dropped the tea.

"Everything is in his name. I don't even pay the bills. They're all automatically done."

"What do you do all day?"

"Play my piano. Read. Paint. Go to the museum, to the art gallery. Make my meals."

"Doesn't sound like much."

"It isn't."

"So what now?"

"I'm tired, can I crash here?"

"Sure. Take the bed, I'll take the couch."

She just nodded her head in assent. I fixed up the bed for her, made the couch for myself, and finished my biography of Truman late that night.

The smell of coffee woke me. She was at the kitchen table, dressed in a t-shirt. Her hair was mussed wonderfully. She even looked good in the morning.

"Good morning. Did you sleep ok on the couch?"

"Good morning. Yeah, the couch is ok."

She got up to get my coffee. Wow. "Black, sugar, cream?"

"Sugar, please."

The coffee tasted good, hot and rich. I looked at her bare legs under the table.

"Did you sleep ok?"

"Like a baby."

"So what's the plan?"

"My piano will fit if we move your computer desk."

"Ok."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes. I'm sure."

She laughed and rubbed her leg against mine. "So what do you want to do today?"

When I got back from another meeting with the museum people I heard the music. As soon as my key unlocked the door the music stopped. When I opened the door, she was standing by the stereo.

"He's back."

I stood still. "Hi Catherine, how are you? What do you mean he's back?" I threw the mail on the desk.

"I mean he's back."

"How do you know?"

"I took a cab this morning to get some paintings. He was washing his car."

"So what did you say?"

"I said that I wanted my stuff, that all I wanted were my paintings and my clothes. That a truck would be coming for my piano."

"What'd he say?"

"He said that was ok, he had some papers for me to sign on the kitchen table. I signed the papers, grabbed my stuff and came home."

"That was it?"

She looked at the floor. "Yeah, that was it."

"Was he mad? Did you guys say anything else?"

"No. He was busy washing his Jeep. There was a vase full of fresh cut roses on the table. And there was a nightgown on the floor in the kitchen. That's about it."

I put my briefcase down and sat on the couch by Catherine. We just sat there for a while.

"Catherine, do you want to change your mind?"

"No. No, I don't."

My cell phone rang. Great, everybody was looking at me. I'm in a meeting with the top staff at one of the top 25 museums in the United States, pitching them on my idea for a web site, and my phone rings. "Excuse me, gentlemen." I dug the phone out of my jacket and flipped it open. "Hello, Carter Woodbury."

"Hi. What are you doing?"

"Well, right now I'm in the middle of a meeting with the museum people. Can I call you back?"

"Meet me in the reconstructed Greek courtyard in an hour."

"Here?"

"Yes. Bye."

The museum people were receptive to my web site mock-up. They even liked my idea of terminals at various parts of the museum that people could access to find out more about the artists on a museum intranet. I had my second big project, even felt like a success for a little while. Catherine was in the courtyard waiting for me. She looked good wearing a floral dress, even if she did have one of my jackets over it. She bounded up to me like a puppy.

"Hi Catherine."

"So how'd it go?"

"I got it. Two in a row now. Maybe I can make a real go of this."

She rocked back and forth a little with her hands in the jacket pockets. "Want to walk?"

"Sure. Where does the map say we go today?"

"I don't know. I didn't bring it. You decide."

"No map?"

"No, you decide."

"Ok, let’s go to the renaissance section."

We spent the afternoon in the museum, walking slowly, talking about art. Somewhere in the Vermeers she slipped her arm into mine as we walked.

"Are you hungry?"

"Sure. So where to today, Catherine?"

"Surprise."

"Ok, I'll play along. You took a cab to get here, right?"

"Um-huh."

We drove as always, her the navigator. We ended up at our apartment.

"What's going on?"

"Surprise. Close your eyes."

"Are you kidding me?"

"No, I certainly am not, now close your eyes."

After I could open my eyes, I saw our apartment. The couch that had been giving my back fits for the last month was gone. There were paintings all over the place. Catherine's piano was where my computer desk used to be. The drapes were changed to a pale yellow.

"Wow."

"Do you like it?"

"Wow, yeah, I like it. Um, Catherine?"

"Yes?"

"Where will I sleep?"

"With me, where else?"

"Ok."

Bailey and I met for coffee at the truck stop. He had a manuscript he wanted me to see. Besides being a poet, he was also a scriptwriter. I figured that he thought this would be a great way to meet starlets.

"Bailey, why are we meeting here?"

"Are you kidding? This place is great. Look, over there. See the waitress with the bun? She has a tattoo of a tear right above her right thumb. Is that cool, or what? Something right out of a Tom Waits song. This place is just dripping with white trash America. Have you seen this buffet? They’ve got chicken-fried steak and tons of gravy. Talk about inspiration."

"Nice. What now, a movie on waitresses?"

"Topless waitresses."

"God, you never stop, do you?"

"No, I don't. Want a smoke?"

"No thanks, I quit."

"Since when did you quit? You used to bum butts off me forever."

"It's been a couple of months now."

"Is it because of her?"

"What?"

"Is it because of that hot little redhead you're shacked up with?"

"You know, for a poet, you really have a masterful command of the English language."

"You bet, baby, ear for the dialogue of the common man. Seriously, what's the deal with you two? What's her name?"

"Catherine Spencer."

"So where'd she go to school, any tattoos, body piercings? Details, man, I need details."

"I'm not gonna end up in another one of your flop screenplays again."

"Off the record, man, off the record. And that screenplay still has promise, despite a character based on you." He started fiddling with the sugar packets. "So what's the scoop?"

I eased back into the back of the booth and put my arm on the window ledge. "She's beautiful. She plays piano while I work on web pages. She paints, makes great Chinese food."

"That's nice. Where'd she go to school? Some private chick college on the east coast?"

I leaned a hand over and finished my coffee. "Look Bailey, I'm not interested in that stuff."

He sat back and laughed. "So what you're really telling me is that you're living with this art chick and you don't know squat about her. Am I right? She must have a really nice ass."

I looked for the waitress. I could've used another cup of coffee. "It's not like that Bailey..."

"Wow, think of the possibilities. Maybe she's on the run from the Mafia, or she could be a hooker..."

"She's not a hooker."

"Oh yeah, how do ya' know that?"

"I asked."

"Wow, that must have been a fun conversation. Hi, how are you? Are you a hooker? No? Want to move in?"

"Funny, real fucking funny." Where was that damned waitress? "So what's your script about?"

"Nice attention shifter. Ok, here's the scoop. It's about this group of twenty-somethings who form a commune in Montana to explore their innermost thoughts on religion. How's that for starters?"

"It sucks." Where was that goddamned waitress?

"You haven't even read a word yet. Thanks, I really value your opinion."

"Let me guess, they all end up naked at one point. Are you sure you're not writing pornos? If there's no major sex, hello direct for video." Bailey was pissing me off. Why did he need to know all about Catherine? Thankfully the waitress finally arrived. Bailey was right, she did have a tattooed tear on her hand. All I could do was look at that stupid tattoo. She had to have noticed. She didn't say anything, though, she was too busy chatting with Bailey about the weather or something. I didn't pay attention, I was just glad to get another cup of coffee.

When I got home there was a note from Catherine on the fridge.

"Gotta go away for a couple of days. I'll be back Saturday morning. I'll call and tell you what flight so you can pick me up. You're a big boy, you can fend for yourself. Love, Catherine."

I went to the fridge and pulled out two beers. After drinking the first one I sat down tentatively on the piano bench. My fingers just lightly touched the keys.

The next day I got a phone on my cell phone while I was at the grocery store.

"Hello."

"Hi." Her voice sounded weak. "What are you doing?"

"Buying frozen pizza. They’re on sale. Catherine, what's going on? You don't sound so good."

"I'm in Minnesota. Grandma died last night."

"Wow, Catherine. I'm sorry. What can I do for you?"

"Fly to Minneapolis tonight. Can you do that for me?"

"I think so. I'll call Bailey’s travel agent. Are you sure you're ok?" The lady in the next aisle was looking at me weird. Who cares.

I booked a flight to Minneapolis that was scheduled to get in at 7:00 that night. After booking it I remembered that I didn't know where to get in touch with Catherine. How the hell was I going to let her know when I was getting in? I left my cell phone on just in case.

The flight was standard, I read the airline magazines and drank too much. When I disembarked she was waiting. I recognized her hair first off, and then I saw her eyes. She'd been through a rough time, judging by her eyes. She met me with a hug that seemed to last several seconds past the official ‘I’m glad to see you’ hug.. I had to pull us apart to see her face.

"So how are you?"

She tilted her head up slightly. "I'm ok, I guess."

"Do we need a cab?"

"No, I have a car. Do we need to pick up your bags?"

"No, everything I need is in these bags. I didn't know how long to pack for."

"Let's go."

We drove to St. Paul, to a nice neighborhood lined with huge trees. At a large Victorian house filled with trees and flowers we pulled in the drive.

"Is this your grandmother's place?"

"Yeah."

The house was huge. Large columns separated the living room from the entryway. The walls were a dark maroon, and plants surrounded us. The dining room held a table suitable for seating 12, it looked like something out of a period movie. I couldn't imagine how many rooms were in this place.

Catherine led me to the kitchen. An army of servants and cooks would not have been out of place in a kitchen like that. She opened the fridge and pulled out a bottle of wine, poured two glasses.

"Let's go sit in the library."

"Lead the way."

The library was something out of a mystery movie, something where you would expect Sherlock Holmes to pull a book out of the shelf and a secret passageway would open up. Books lined the walls from ceiling to floor. I think I could have parked a truck in the room. It smelled like an old country library, with its dust and musty book smell combined with an old pipe. Catherine sat in a large, overstuffed leather chair, took off her shoes and propped her feet on a coffeetable, scattering magazines. She didn't seem to notice.

I sat in the matching chair. "So, really, how are you?"

"I'm ok. I am. I'm ok."

"Were you close to your grandmother?"

A cloud passed over her eyes. She took a large drink of wine.

"Yes." Pause. "At one time. She raised me. Me and my sisters."

I took another drink and said nothing..

"Grandma took us in when my parents died. I was 8." She took another big drink of wine and brushed her hair back behind both ears. "It was nothing spectacular. They died in a car crash. He sold insurance, she was a housewife. I'm the youngest of four. It was a Brady Bunch childhood, we had peanut butter sandwiches and drank Kool-Aid and played house. I took piano lessons, my sisters took dance and gymnastics. Regular middle-class stuff. After they died, we moved in here. Grandpa died right after I was born, so it was just us and Grandma here. I took Mom's old room."

I finished drinking my wine. Catherine's voice had a strange timbre that I hadn't heard before. She was looking at a painting on the far wall. After a few minutes, she got up and moved to the window.

"I don't think Grandma ever approved of Dad. She loved us, though." I watched her take a deep breath. Her voice came slow. "Janet ran away when she was sixteen. We've never heard from her since. Margie moved to California after high school and went to UCLA. Grandma got cards from her at Christmas. She's a waitress at a fancy restaurant in L.A. and is dating an actor who nobody's ever heard of. Karen's married, two kids, and lives in Chicago. She'll be here tomorrow morning. Funeral's at 10."

I excused myself and went to the kitchen. After a long drag of wine straight from the bottle, I brought the wine back to the library, poured the rest for us, and sat back down.

She looked straight at me as soon as I sat down. "They all hate me. Just wanted you to know that before Karen gets here."

"Why do they hate you?"

"Grandma spoiled me. She brought Mom's piano and put it here in the library, paid for the best piano teacher in the Twin Cities to give me lessons. I guess she saw a lot of me in her. That's what made her so mad after I married Eric."

Silence. I took a drink and watched her eyes. They tracked across the library, finally stopping at mine.

"I met Eric in junior high. He was cool, had an Atari and a really great haircut. All the cheerleaders were after him, even then. We did a science project together, and were together after that. He was the football player, all that stuff. We went to college together. I paid for his last two years with my trust fund. We got married at City Hall after he got his stockbroker job."

"Did you love him?"

"Yes. No. I don't know. It's funny, I really don't know. At one time I did. I even loved him when he cheated on me."

I stiffened in the chair and took another drink. I watched the ripples play out inside the glass as I shook it softly from side to side.

"I see that look on your face, yes, he cheated on me. I just overlooked it, said oh well, it’s just a physical thing. He really loves me, after all, if he didn't, why would he marry me? I can't believe that I used to think that."

I didn't know what to say. I just looked at a painting over her head, a winter landscape, trees straining against the wind and snow.

"That's one of yours, isn't it?"

"Yes, Grandma always liked it. It was one of the first things that I painted in college that I considered worth keeping." She took a deep breath and messed with her hair again. "Listen, I'm pretty tired. I've been up forever. I'm going to sleep now, make yourself at home. The library's great, food's in the kitchen. Wine cellar is the first door to the right of the kitchen. The bedroom is the first room upstairs on the left."

With that she gave me a kiss and went upstairs. After finishing my wine, and the rest of the bottle, I decided to look around the house.

Catherine's grandmother had exquisite taste. I felt like I was in a house on the historical register, the antiques and paintings were museum quality. I made myself a pastrami sandwich, grabbed a bottle of cabernet from the cellar and settled into the chair with a edition of Byron when the doorbell rang. Shit, what do I do now? Should I wake Catherine? Whoever was at the door wasn't very patient, because it rang again. I put down my sandwich and book and went to the door.

"Hello."

"Hello. Who are you?"

"Carter. Can I help you?"

"I'm Karen. This is my grandmother's house. Can I come in?"

I let her in and closed the door. Nobody said anything. Finally she took off her coat and draped it on the staircase.

"Well, Mr. Carter, if you don't mind me asking, what exactly are you doing in my grandmother's house?"

"I'm with Catherine. She's asleep upstairs."

"Oh. I see."

Another incredibly awkward pause. I could almost feel her eyes looking me over.

"Has she been asleep long?"

"About a half hour or so."

"Thanks."

She went upstairs. Not knowing what else to do, I went back to my sandwich.

The funeral parlor was an old place, covered with ivy. Karen and Catherine sat in the front seat, not saying anything the whole way over. I decided to sit in the back, Catherine didn't seem to mind.

After the minister finished the eulogy, Catherine got up and went to the piano. She had her hair tied back, and was wearing a pale pink dress. She played "Amazing Grace" and never looked up from the keys.

After the funeral the house was filled with elderly people. I decided to hide out in the library.

A voice behind me asked "So how long have you and Catherine been together?"

It was Karen. "About six months now."

"Does Eric know?"

"I don't know. They're divorced."

"They are?"

"Yeah. She signed the papers."

"Good. Grandmother and I didn't agree on much, but we agreed on him. Bastard. He took all her money, you know."

"What'd you mean?"

"She was rich. She had a trust fund. We all did. Grandfather had one set up for all of us before he died. When she turned eighteen she took it all out and they spent it. Every last damn dime."

"I didn't know that."

"She didn't tell you? I suppose she didn't tell you that Eric was a spineless little golddigger, either. Bastard. What a fucking bastard. Good, I hope that little prick is happy now. I hope he rots in hell."

I didn't know what to say. I just nodded in that close-lipped way that seems to tell most people that you don’t have anything to say.

"So Mr. Carter, what is it that you do?"

"I'm a web site designer, I create web pages on the internet for businesses."

"That sounds nice."

Sounds nice, what the hell does that mean? "I've picked up some good clients lately. Just finished doing a site for a museum."

Catherine entered, and handed me a glass of wine. "So what're you two talking about? The weather?"

Karen looked at me for a moment. "No Catherine, we were talking about Eric and how he stole all of your money."

Holy shit.

"Karen, I don't want to start that again."

"Why not? Doesn't Mr. Carter here deserve to hear all the gory details?"

"First off, his name is Carter Woodbury, and second of all its not your damn place to tell him about Eric."

"Don't take that tone with me, little sister. Does he know that Grandmother left you basically everything in the will? Huh? Does he know that? Sometimes I just can't stand you."

Karen slammed her glass down on the coffeetable and stormed out of the room. I looked at Catherine, and she was crying. It was the first time I had ever seen her cry.

The sun creeped through the slits in the heavy brocade drapes. It was so damned dark I didn't know what time it was. I reached over to the nightstand to grab my watch and found only sheets in my way, no warm body. Shit. 10:30 in the morning.

After fumbling with some clothes I worked my way downstairs. I could smell the coffee getting stronger with each creak on the stairs.

"Good morning Mr. Carter."

"Good morning, Karen."

I sat down at the kitchen island, poured a cup of coffee and stared at it for a while. Mornings are not my best thing.

"Catherine still sleeping?"

"I thought she was downstairs. She's not in bed."

"Great. Now where the hell did she go? We've got stuff to settle."

This is not how I would've started the morning. I shifted my legs on the stool, poured some more coffee, and studiously added the sugar.

"I suppose you have some questions, Mr. Carter."

"Please, just Carter. I feel like I'm in Dixie being called Mr. Carter."

"Ok, Carter. I suppose you have some questions?"

"Yeah, but where do I start?"

"I'll start. Tell me about yourself, Carter."

"My full name is Avery Carter Woodbury. I was named after my Great-Great-Grandfather who fought in the Civil War. I have 2 brothers, Brett and Michael. I'm the middle one. Graduated high school, undergraduate degree in English, master's degree in Creative Writing with an emphasis on poetry. I design web sites for businesses, which is starting to take off. On the side I teach English Composition classes at a local community college. I've never been married, no kids, quit smoking, don't take drugs unless you count aspirin, and I don't have AIDS. I've never been arrested, got some speeding tickets when I was in high school, and that's about it. Anything else?"

"I think that will do for the background check, I'm not a private detective." She pulled her robe a little tighter around herself, not looking me in the eyes.

"Sorry, I just felt like I was being grilled."

She took a sip of her coffee and looked at me for a moment before turning her eyes away. "No, I'm sorry. I'm just protective of my little sister. I know some of what she's been through. I've kind of lost track of her for the last couple of years, except for some late night phone calls." She got up and went to the fridge. "Are you hungry Mr. Carter? Excuse me, are you hungry, Carter?"

"A little. I usually don't eat much in the morning."

"I'm not much of a cook. Toast and cereal?"

"Are there any eggs? I can make omelets."

"That'd be nice."

For the next hour I busied myself making breakfast. There was a comforting way that the eggs broke perfectly, the cheese grated just like I wanted it to. Nothing existed except the task at hand, beating the eggs, preparing the ingredients. Karen supplied me with bowls and a skillet without being asked, and didn't say a word. After eating the omelets, and putting all the dirty dishes in the dishwasher, we were left with the coffee and each other again.

"Would you like me to tell you about Catherine?"

"If you don't mind."

"Let's go sit in the library. It's more comfortable than these stools."

There was a note sitting in one of the chairs. Karen picked it up and handed it to me.

"Carter I need to run some errands. I'll be back after lunch. I figured you'd end up here in the library eventually this morning. Don't listen to everything Karen says. Catherine."

"She says she'll be back after lunch and not to believe everything you say."

"I'm not surprised she said that. I am surprised she said she'll be back."

"Why's that?"

"When things get too difficult for Catherine she leaves. She's done it ever since she was little. When her and grandmother argued about Eric she left for three days. That was in high school."

"She'll be back."

"What makes you so sure of that?"

"Gut feeling."

"I used to think that too."

I took another drink of my coffee. This was so strange. "You said yesterday that Catherine gets almost everything in the will?"

Karen took a deep, slow breath. "That's right. Grandmother left her this house, as well as almost everything else in the will. Catherine's named after her, grandmother was Mary Catherine. She told me after my oldest son's birth that she was going to do it, that Larry and I were going to be ok, that she had to do something for Catherine. I was pissed. Larry and I used the trust to buy a house and go through college, I was having a baby, and she was talking about taking care of Catherine."

She reached into her robe and pulled out a pack of menthol cigarettes, lit one and exhaled.

"I'm sorry, you said you quit."

"That's ok."

Another deep drag on the cigarette, and smoke filled the room. "Grandmother was always trying to take care of Catherine. Piano teachers, painting teachers, all the best, while Janet and Margie and me had to settle for the local dance and gymnastics stuff. When Janet ran away it just got worse. Grandmother would tell Catherine that she would be a great concert pianist when she grew up, and the rest of us just kind of got the crumbs." Another puff of smoke. "It got worse the older she got. When she started hanging around with Eric, Grandmother hated it. She told Catherine not to pin her dreams on a man, that she'd only get let down in the end, and that's what kept Mom from being anything."

"She told me that your grandmother didn't approve of your father."

"Not at all. She hated Daddy. Catherine was too little to remember, but I remember hating to come over here for Sunday dinner, because Mom and Dad would always fight. Dad never wanted to come. Even when we did get here, it was so strained that we hid out upstairs."

The phone rang in the kitchen.

"I'd better get that." Karen put out her cigarette and went to get the phone.

I kept looking at the winter landscape.

I plugged in the laptop and decided to check my e-mail. After wading through the miscellaneous crap, I had a message from the consulting company. They needed me to fill in for a project leader who had a heart attack. Great. Perfect timing.

Catherine didn't return after lunch. She didn't return that night, or the next morning. Karen said that she'd wait until the weekend, then she had to get back to Chicago.

My cell phone rang.

"Hi."

"Hi, where the hell are you?"

"Our apartment."

"What are you doing there?"

"Packing."

"Packing?"

"Yeah, packing my stuff."

Silence.

"Are you leaving me?"

Silence.

"Catherine, are you leaving me?"

"No."

"How can you be packing and not be leaving me?"

"Carter..."

"What?"

I heard a long sigh. "Stay with me."

"Where?"

"St. Paul, Grandma's house."

"I'm supposed to work on a financial company’s website in 3 weeks. How the hell can I move to St. Paul?"

"You can design web pages here. I'm sure there's a fill-in consulting position you can get somewhere. Come to St. Paul. I've already started packing some of your stuff."

"What?"

"I've started packing some of your stuff."

"Catherine..."

"The movers will be here at four o'clock."

"Karen's waiting for you."

"I figured that. See you later tonight."

"Tonight?"

"Yeah, I'm flying in. Pick me up at the airport at 6:00. Bye."

After the phone call I went downstairs. Karen and the lawyer were going over papers in the living room. He rose to greet me.

"John Anderson. How do you do?"

Karen stood as well. "This is Carter Woodbury, he's Catherine's..."

"Carter Woodbury. Good to meet you."

Karen motioned me to sit in a chair by the window. "Have you heard from Catherine?"

"Yeah, she called me a minute or so ago. She's at our apartment, packing. I'm picking her up at the airport at six."

Anderson shuffled some papers into a briefcase and got up. "Good, we can tie things up later tonight. I'll be over around 7 or so. Nice to meet you Mr. Woodbury."

I shook his hand. "You too."

After he left Karen slumped into the couch.

"I can't take much more of this."

"What'd you mean?"

"It's just like it used to be. Janet's nowhere to be found, the last number I have for Margie and her boyfriend is disconnected, and Catherine is off somewhere. I have to do everything. I hate it, I hate it, and sometimes I really hate her."

Catherine didn't say much on the way back to her Grandmother's house. The flight was ok, the piano will arrive in a couple of days, my computer will arrive tomorrow.

"You're sure about this? St. Paul?"

"Yes."

"Catherine..."

"Don't."

"Ok."

When we pulled into the driveway Karen was sitting on the porch swing.

"Can we finish this?"

"Yes, Karen, we can finish it. When's the lawyer coming over?"

"An hour or so. Does he know about everything in the will? You told him, right?"

"No."

What everything? What were they talking about? "Um, does someone want to fill me in?"

Catherine snuggled close to me. "Just wait a little, ok?"

I took a long breath. "Ok." Karen looked at me steadily, and took another long drag off of a cigarette.

Catherine and I went in the house. I saw the Mercedes parked in the driveway.

"Ok, everybody is here. We can begin."

The lawyer had his papers ready. We were in the library, Karen and Catherine sitting opposite of each other. I sat on the floor in front of Catherine.

"Would you be more comfortable in a chair, Carter?"

"No thanks, Karen. I'm fine."

"Whatever suits you. Ok, Mr. Anderson, let's get started."

"This is the will of the late Mary Catherine O'Neil Flaherty."

This is the last will and testament of Mary Catherine O'Neil Flaherty. Being of sound mind, these are my last requests.

First, the house in St. Paul and all its contents will go to my granddaughter, Catherine Jenkins, with the following provisions. One: She must not be married to Eric Spencer. If she is still married to Eric Spencer, ownership of the house and its contents will be transferred to the Minnesota State Historical Society. Two: If Catherine does take possession of the house, she must live in the residence. Three: Catherine must finish her college degree. Four: If Catherine is to marry again, her sister, Karen Jenkins Thomas, must approve the man.

Second, if at the time this will is read Janet Jenkins and Margie Jenkins are not present they will receive nothing. If they are present, they will receive an equal share of their grandfather's business with their sisters. If they are not, and I fully expect they will not be present, Karen and Catherine will split the business equally.

Third, Karen will receive a yearly sum of one hundred thousand dollars to provide for her family and my great-grandchildren.

Fourth, I wish to be buried alongside Sean. No flowers or ostentatious displays are to be made at the gravesite. He would not have approved.

These are my wishes and I expect them to be honored.

Anderson lifted his head and looked at Catherine. "It's signed and official. Congratulations Catherine, congratulations Karen."

Karen looked at Anderson. "Well?"

"It's official. Catherine and Eric Spencer are no longer married. He has remarried." Catherine displayed no emotion at this statement.

Katherine smacked her hand on the chair arm. "Good, I'm glad that's done with. Good riddance."

What was going on? Inheriting the house and business? What business? Anderson gathered some papers and presented them to Karen.

"I need you signature here, and here, please."

Karen signed and gave the papers to Catherine. "You need to sign, too."

Catherine tapped me on the shoulder. "Could you bend over a little bit?"

"Sure."

She placed the papers on my back. I could feel the point of the pen flowing across my back. She handed the papers to Anderson.

"The board will be calling both of you tomorrow." He stuffed the papers into his briefcase and rose. "If you have any questions, please give me a call. Good night." With that, he left.

Karen lit a cigarette. After a few puffs, she looked at Catherine. "Are you going to get married?"

Catherine jerked her head up abruptly. "What?"

"Are you going to get married? You and Carter?"

"We haven't discussed it."

"He checked out."

I checked out? What the hell did that mean?

I could feel her breath harder. "You didn't."

"Yes, I did. The agency found nothing except what he told me the other day."

I couldn't believe it. She had me checked out by a detective agency. I couldn't say anything. Catherine was breathing erratically behind me. I stood up. "I need a drink." I walked into the kitchen, opened the fridge, and put my head inside. I stayed that way for a while.

When I walked back into the library, Karen wasn't there.

"Where'd she go."

"To pack."

"When's she leaving?"

"Couple of hours."

"Catherine, what's going on."

"You heard."

"Yeah, I heard that you and Karen inherited a ton. What is going on?"

"I'm moving to St. Paul. So are you."

I took a couple of steps back and leaned against the doorway. "Well, yeah..."

"Good. It's settled."

With that she got up and went upstairs. I followed.

"Catherine, I can't just drop off the face of the earth and move to St. Paul."

"I know. I booked you on a flight tomorrow. Take as long as you need. I'll be here."

Bailey knocked on my office door.

"I heard you're leaving for St. Paul. Is that true?"

I took off my hat and wiped my forehead. "Yeah, its true."

"What the hell's in St. Paul? Let me guess, it's got something to do with that little redhead, right? Shit, man, is it that good?"

"Bailey, you can really be an ass."

"Whoa, mister defensive. Touchy, touchy. Gotta consulting gig up there?"

"Not yet. Haven't really looked." I closed a box of books and taped it shut. "I'll probably concentrate on my web stuff for a while. It's going well."

"C'mon man, you're a poet and a scholar, not a computer geek."

"Sorry I don't fit into your boxes, Bailey. Hand me that marker, will ya'?"

Bailey handed me the marker. I put the label on the box and shoved it with my foot towards the other end of the office.

"What'd the Department Head say?"

"Not much. Gave me a few names to look up. Said I'd always have a reference here if I wanted it. Shook my hand and smacked me on the shoulder. Crap like that."

"You know it snows about a million inches a year up there, right?"

"So what?"

"I don't get you anymore, man. I just don't get you anymore. You got my e-mail address. I've got to go teach grunt employees how to mangle a spreadsheet. See you, man."

He shook my hand and left. I packed up the rest of my books, cleaned all the old files off the computer, and dumped the dead plant in the trash.

Catherine was sleeping. I brushed her hair back and looked at her for a while.

"Um, uh, what're you doing?"

I propped my head up with my arm. "Just looking at you."

She gave me a confused look. "Yeah, I'm at my best when I'm asleep. Go to sleep."

I sat up. "What about getting married?"

"Ok, I'm awake now." She sat up. "Are you serious?"

She looked gorgeous in the half-light of the bedroom. "I think so. What about your grandmother's will? And Karen?"

"Um-hum." She just looked at me. I couldn’t read anything in her eyes.

"C'mon. Karen had me checked out by a private eye. You said you didn't know if we were going to get married. That means you must have thought about it before."

She got up out of bed, wrapped the bedspread across her naked frame and opened the curtains. "I've thought about it. I don't know. After Eric..."

I leaned back against the headboard. "I'm not Eric."

"I know."

She sat on the edge of the bed. The bedspread slipped off of her left shoulder, and her hair fell over her face.

"Ok."

"Ok what Catherine?"

"Ok."

She stood back up and let the bedspread slip off of her body. Her hand reached out towards me.

On to section two...

Ok, I've had enough, take me back to the library

Back home please, James