Tilting at Windmills (2 page)

“A girl story,” she insisted.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

PART ONE

M
ARCH

O
NE

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

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

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

Madison was expected back, too. Maddie.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hey, it’s me.”

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

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

Levity was dangerous when Maddie lacked sleep.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Me, I went home and puked my guts out.

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

What a difference a few days makes. Just as Justin and Maddie were wrapping things up, the doctor proclaimed me well enough to venture out—but said that I should still take it easy. The office was my first destination.

Now, as I tried to hail a cab outside my Upper East Side apartment, the irony was not lost on me that, here, on my first day heading back to the office, the virus gone from my system, I’d missed the presentation I’d worked so hard on. Justin and Maddie, I knew, made a formidable team, and so I had little doubt that the client was bowled over by the plans. Our plans.

Finally, luck came my way and a stray cab stopped. I climbed in, and told him 50th and Broadway. Home to the Beckford Group, where I’d made my living for the last seven years. I was eager to catch up on the latest office gossip.

T
he latest news, it turned out, was my return, and I spent much of the day educating folks about the particulars of my illness. It was the last topic I wanted to discuss, but maybe hearing someone else’s misery helped my colleagues enjoy their own good health. Or maybe they cared. I did manage to squeeze in some work, and by the end of the day, I was exhausted.

My doctor had warned me not to overdo it—the virus was gone, but now came the crucial healing period. The best thing to do was go home. I’d heard the good news from St. Louis—Justin and Maddie had secured Voltaire, ensuring millions for our small agency. If there was one damper on hearing this good news, it was hearing it all secondhand. After all the work I’d done, I might have expected to get the first phone call, or for Maddie to have told me this morning. In fact, she’d said very little.

In the six weeks since I’d been sick, I felt Maddie begin to drift away, in direct opposition to the plans we had hammered out at Christmas. Plans that included taking our relationship to the next level—moving in together when my lease was up this coming summer. Then came the Voltaire account and my sudden contagious status. And our quality time waned liked the long days of August.

Truth was, though, I hadn’t expected to fall in love, and not with Maddie. Madison Chasen, graduate of New York University, had worked for two high-powered agencies before coming aboard at age twenty-seven as an account director, my equal and three years my junior. Still, we weren’t competitive; instead, we gravitated toward each other, professionally at first, until one weekend at her Southampton share, we’d fallen drunkenly into the pool first and then her bed second, and on waking sober the next morning, we’d found we had little regret and a great deal of passion left. She’d been working at Beckford for only four months when we became an item. No one cared, Justin Warfield in particular. He knew we were both workaholics and that we didn’t mind the late-night hours as long as we were together.

Spending time together. For the past few weeks we’d spent little time together, and little of that could be termed quality. What I needed was to feel her in my arms again, to know we were all right and still on the course we had charted, and these thoughts were occupying my tired mind when a knock came at my office door. The day had gotten away from me—I noticed it was five-thirty. One of our junior associates, Bill Ettman, was standing in my door frame with his suit jacket on. He looked ready to leave.

“Hey, Brian, the gang’s going to McHale’s for drinks. What do you say—wanna join the party? First day back and all, I think you owe us all a round.”

Bill was a nice guy with an easy familiarity with the entire sixteen-person staff and clearly the group leader when it came to out-of-the-office activities. Trouble was, they all wanted to drink, celebrate our windfall, and my body was telling me no way, no how. One of the many shitty aspects of hepatitis—you can’t drink. Not for six months, the doc said, and I took him at his word. And there was nothing worse than being the only one sober among a group of silly drunks. So I declined the offer.