Tilting at Windmills (19 page)

“I’ve had fun.”

“Had?”

“Having. I’m
having
lots of fun,” I assured her. “So, you never did tell me—how did the windmill come into the picture?”

“Didn’t I say I’d save that for a rainy day?” she asked.

I looked up at the bright blue sky and pretended to catch a raindrop in my palm. “We’ll have to improvise.”

“Okay—the windmill,” she said, thinking. “Let’s see . . . where to begin? Well, like you, I’d never heard of Linden Corners, and why would I? It’s just one of dozens of small villages in the river valley. But I had heard about the windmill when my aunt mentioned it one day. She showed me an article in the paper about its maybe being torn down. ‘What a shame,’ she said. Me, I stared at the photograph of the windmill, and for days, my curiosity was piqued; I couldn’t get the image out of my mind. I decided I had to see it before it was destroyed. So I drove to Linden Corners and found the windmill, and oh, Brian, as run down as it was, the sight of those giant sails, gently turning with the shifts in the air, I was transfixed.”

“I know the feeling.”

“There was a county meeting a few days later, where they were to discuss a referendum to tear it down. I went. I couldn’t believe it—I spoke up against these leaders, me, a nineteen-year-old girl who’d lived in the region all of two months. What I discovered was that I wasn’t alone in wanting to save the windmill, and I became fast friends with some of the locals, among them Gerta Connors. She’s the one who took me to the farmhouse, and that’s where I met Dan.”

Her story came to an abrupt close, as though she’d been reading a chapter from a book and it had come to an end and she was afraid to turn the page. She gazed down on the river and somehow found her strength. “Dan was a conflicted man, desperately trying to hold on to his family’s farm but also be his own independent and modern man, trying to help his elderly parents as much as he could. But he was twenty-five and had a job himself, working, ironically, for the state legislature in Albany. As for the windmill, I guess he didn’t give it any thought one way or the other. You see, the Sullivans were going to sell that piece of land back to the county, and the money would help keep the rest of the farm going.”

“So what happened?”

“The beauty of small-town America. Turns out the bank’s loan manager’s wife had sided with the preservationists, and so she convinced her husband to give the Sullivans an extension on their loan. And then I and some others volunteered our time and energy and some money, too, and we restored the windmill.”

“And in the process, you and Dan Sullivan . . .”

She cut me off with a quick nod of her head. “Yeah.”

A momentary silence enveloped us, somehow drawing us closer. Hers was a wonderful, inspiring story of determination, and I told her so. “And so that was how you became known as the woman who loved the windmill.”

“More like ‘saved.’ Except in Linden Corners, we speak from the heart.”

“This Linden Corners, it’s a special place. A throwback to a time when being neighbors meant being friends,” I said. “I can’t help but feel spoiled by it. This is a world far beyond the one I knew, a city pulsing with a life of its own, while here I am surrounded by nature’s riches—the trees, the river, the sky, not to mention the beautiful woman at my side.”

The compliment simply slipped out. I hadn’t had time to think about it; I just said the words, and there they were, right on the table (or blanket, as it were), my acknowledgment of Annie’s beauty. And she didn’t press me on it; she seemed to favor simply letting it sink in and warm her insides. My words produced a glow that emanated from her smile. She then changed the subject altogether and my words evaporated into the air.

“Brian, tell me why you left New York City.”

“Wow—where’d that come from?”

“Actually, from Gerta.”

“George’s wife?”

“Brian, do you know any other women named Gerta?”

“Good point.”

“And good try at deflecting the question. Eventually you’re going to have to tell someone—whether it’s me or George or somebody else. We’re a curious people, we Linden Corners folk, and when we welcome a new friend, we like to know all about them. And so far, as wonderful as you’ve been to all of us—”

“And all of you to me.”

“Stop trying to change the subject,” she said again, her tone playful but stern at the same time. She didn’t want to offend me, but she still wanted her question answered.

“Okay, okay, you win,” I said, trying to compose my thoughts, letting my mind drift down the river to where it might find the world I’d left just a few short months ago. “Well, I gave you the shorthand version previously, but I guess that wasn’t enough. The story starts and ends in New York City, where for close to fourteen years I worked and lived and even loved, and then one day it all came crashing down. And I decided, then and there, with little regard for all I’d established and also with little regret, to pack up my stuff and split.”

“And that’s it?”

“That’s it.”

She poured herself more wine and then offered me a sip. “Just a little?”

I shook my head. “Can’t. You know.”

“Right. Hepatitis. Brian, you sure that’s not just another form of escape, a crutch that enables you to hobble along in this new existence of yours? It’s a reminder of what you left behind, and maybe somehow it strengthens your resolve.”

“You missed your calling, Dr. Sullivan,” I said.

There was no getting around the issue anymore, around the reason for my being in Linden Corners and the events that led up to it, so I continued my story by backing up to my move to New York City all those years ago.

“I’d been in college, had been dating my high school sweetheart for five years. We were both graduating. We were all set to plan our life together when one day she just ended it, saying that she felt like she was still in high school and that as long as we were together, she’d feel that way. She needed to grow, and there was no way she’d grow with me attached to her.”

“Attached?” Annie asked.

“Like an anchor, weighing her down.”

“Ouch.”

“My friend John Oliver had just moved to New York City and I went to visit him for a weekend and ended up staying, getting a job and living the life of a single twentysomething in the big city. Lots of parties, bad dates, low pay, and long working hours, but it was fun and filled with an undeniable excitement. When Justin Warfield and his public relations firm came courting, the years of struggling began to pay off. I took this amazing job, met this incredible woman—who also happened to work there—and suddenly I was in my early thirties on the fast track for the kind of nice, family-oriented life I’d always dreamed of. Everything, the saying goes, was going great.

“Then I got sick,” I told Annie, “and everything snowballed, culminating in Maddie’s betraying me. That was the catalyst that drove me from the city.”

“So this Maddie, what did she say about sleeping with your boss?”

I shook my head. “I didn’t ask her about it.”

“So you never gave her a chance to explain herself?”

“What was there to explain? She was sleeping with the boss, and apparently she was good enough at it to get herself a promotion.”

“That’s rather a simplistic take on the matter, don’t you think? Very black and white. Do you think you might have been hasty? Not giving her a chance to talk and maybe fill in some of the gray areas?”

“Annie, what would it have changed? Nothing. The end result would have been the same.”

“For the two of you, maybe, in terms of sharing a future together. But Brian, you threw your life away, all that you had worked for. Why? Because of a broken heart?”

“Not broken,” I said, “wounded. And I guess I needed time away to allow it to heal.”

“So you don’t call what you did running away?”

I laughed, a short, sharp bark that took her by surprise. “A common theory. That’s what my friend John called it, too, and each time I talk with him, he reminds me of it. He wants me to come home.”

“And?”

“And I think I’m enjoying myself here.”

“You know what I think?”

“I think you’re going to tell me.”

“That’s right—I am. You, Brian Duncan Just Passing Through, are hiding out.”

“And what’s wrong with that?”

“What’s wrong with it? Brian, it’s not living. You think having all this free time during the day and then spending what would otherwise be lonely nights tending bar satisfying? From the way you describe it, you had a pretty successful career. You’re smart and talented, and now look at you, wasting it all.”

“To spend time with you,” I said. Actually, the words had popped first into my mind, but before I knew it, they were out of my mouth and hovering in the air between us.

She looked away, toward the river, not saying anything, probably afraid to or uncertain of what to say.

I decided to fill the void. “Annie, if I were really running away from my problems, I’d still be on the road, moving from town to town like I did for the first six weeks after leaving New York. I’d be dropping postcards to my friends and family, telling them what a great time I was having, all the while wallowing in my misery and feeling sorry for myself. But that’s not what happened, not when I passed through this valley. I like Linden Corners; I like being able to take it easy after so many years of working so hard. Call me spoiled, but even I know it can’t last. I can’t keep draining my savings and I certainly can’t live on what George is paying me at the tavern. For the summer, though—for now—I’m content.”

“Is that what I am, then, a summer distraction?”

“Truthfully, Annie, I’m not sure what you are. Meeting someone like you—no, not someone
like
you—meeting
you,
that’s not anything I planned on. But I do enjoy the time we spend together, and I like playing with Janey and being invited to your holiday picnics and your special places, like here, up on this bluff. . . .”

Annie hugged herself close, her arms around her knees. As though she were cold. But she wasn’t, not with the afternoon sun creating a warm circle of light around us. No, it was a defensive move. Clearly, our innocent picnic was venturing into uncharted territory, and for both of us, it was dangerous territory, too.

“Brian?” she asked, still not looking at me.

“Yes?”

“I’m . . . I’m not ready.”

“Sshh,” I whispered. “Neither am I.”

She turned to me, and in her eyes I saw the pent-up loss and sorrow, as though they wanted to leave her, seep through her tear ducts and drop into the river far below. I found myself wanting to kiss away those tears, so I leaned in, watched as her eyes closed, and pressed my lips to her eyelids, first one and then the other, tasting salty tears as they trickled down her cheeks.

I pulled away, and our eyes met. And then we kissed again, our lips meeting and touching and our tongues searching and longing. For a time, on a fresh summer’s day, two souls who had known sadness and betrayal found solace and friendship atop a rocky bluff while below, the mighty river surged on, and above, the wispy clouds drifted by. Nature was alive all around us, enlivening us.

“What are you like when you
are
ready?” I asked as we parted. “Wow.”

Annie couldn’t help it—she let out a giggle that reminded me so much of Janey, of her sweetness and her innocence.

“Must have been the wine,” she said.

“Or things more intoxicating,” I said, staring deep into her eyes.

And then the moment between us passed, and Annie and I gathered up the remains of lunch and headed back to the truck with the picnic basket. But thankfully, our afternoon was not yet over. I helped her carry her easel back to the bluff, and there she set up her makeshift studio and began to work her magic on the canvas, while I sat and alternately watched her and watched the river, and eventually I drifted off into a sun-induced slumber, and the hours slipped away.

Later, when she dropped me and my bicycle off in front of Connors’ Corners, I asked her if she’d take me back there someday.

“I . . . that’s not an easy question to answer, Brian,” Annie admitted to me. “School is ending soon and Janey’s going to be home with me, which means my hands will be full, full time. So . . . well, let’s just remember today. We’ll see each other, I’m sure. Linden Corners, it’s real small.”

I tried my hardest not to look away when I said, “Sure. No problem.”

And as abruptly as our day had begun, so did it end. Annie drove off to meet up with Janey’s school bus, and I went upstairs and sat alone on my bed, staring at the ceiling and feeling the constant thrumming of my heart.

L
ife holds so many precious moments that if you’re fortunate to recognize them for what they are, they become keepsake treasures of the mind and heart, something to keep close, so when you’re down or lost you can call them up, like files on a computer, to get you through the darkness. I was grateful for that day on Annie’s Bluff, especially in light of the unexpected tragedy that was to sweep through Linden Corners in a literal heartbeat.

For three days, I heeded Annie’s words and remembered our day together in my dreams; I saw moving pictures that were splashed with rich, vibrant color, images that returned to me whenever I was alone or in the dark or facing a sudden case of doubt about our burgeoning relationship. If indeed that was what our friendship was becoming.

Wednesday passed, and Thursday, and suddenly it was Friday night, opening weekend of the summer solstice and payday for many of the folks who lived and worked in town. So it was going to be a night for celebration, or so George had warned me the night before.

He arrived earlier than usual, three o’clock, and I was upstairs in my room when I heard him tooling around the bar. I went down to see about helping him set up. He had put every glass on top of the sleek bar and was busy washing them, one by one, then setting them on a series of cloth dish towels until they dried.

“Hey, want some help?” I asked.

“No, no—I’m enjoying myself very much. It’s a tradition started by my grandpa, oh, long, long ago. You see, today is sort of a mini-holiday. We call it First Friday, and the bar never sees a busier night all year. As a young lad, I’d come every year and start washing all the glasses and sweeping the floor, and even shining up the brass in later years, and I gotta tell you, Brian, it feels good doing it all again. Real good.”