do anything wrong. It’s just the way things worked out between the two of you. For now.”
Once more, Sadie moves to the wall and strains to see something through the cracks of the little shed, but it’s no use; all she can make out is a narrow line of green. She goes back to sit on the mattress and puts her head in her hands. Her eyes are swollen from crying. She has no idea where she is. She has no idea what time it is, and regrets the fact that she no longer wears a watch, that she relied on her cellphone for that. She hears a noise outside and stiffens, but apparently it was an animal; there are diminishing rustling sounds, then silence. A mountain lion?
She lies down and closes her eyes and waits, her body straight. Waiting is all she can do, and so she does it as well as she can.
10
S aturday afternoon, John sits on the patio at W. A. Frost, waiting for Tom Meister to show up. They’re going to have lunch and talk about financing John’s latest idea for refurbishing the hotel on Wabasha. Tom is the only mortgage banker John knows who’s a bit of a sentimentalist, a practical romantic, really; and that’s exactly the kind of banker he needs for this project. He’s worked with Tom before, and he likes him. They’ve developed a casual friendship; whenever a client gives Tom tickets for a Vikings or Twins game, he invites John to come along. For his part, John occasionally meets Tom for a drink and provides an ear for the man’s woes with the opposite sex. Tom is a thirty-seven-year-old womanizer who can’t settle down, but he likes to think the problem is much more complex than that. John just lets him talk. Tom’s got a good sense of humor and perspective; he’s not one of those guys sitting at the bar all hunch-backed and damp-eyed, blubbering into his beer. A few weeks ago, in fact, when he told John about his latest disaster, he slid onto the barstool beside him, loosened his tie, and began singing the lyrics from a country-and-western song: You done stomped on my heart/And you mashed that sucker flat . Then he ordered a boilermaker and some buffalo wings and said, “Okay, ready for this one?”
Tom is chronically late for most appointments, but every nowand then he shows up on time, so John always feels compelled to arrive at the appointed hour. Ordinarily, he brings a book or a newspaper, but this time he has forgotten. He could peruse the menu in the overly studious way people sitting alone do, but he already knows what he wants: the fried egg BLT and the curried carrot soup. He supposes he could check his email, but he did that not fifteen minutes ago, just before he came into the restaurant. He was looking for a message from Amy, which he did not find. He’d thought of sending her one, but in the end decided against it, not sure if he was honoring the need to give her or himself space. It had hurt when she left the way she did; but then, suddenly, it had not.
He leans back in his chair, watching people come onto the patio with the benign interest of a cat stretched out on a window ledge: Pretty girl. Nice briefcase. I know that man from somewhere—an actor at Dudley Riggs’s Brave New Workshop?
At the table next to him, two women sit down and begin talking in low tones with their heads practically touching. He’d bet anything they’re engaging in the time-honored practice of man-bashing. He discreetly moves a bit closer and hears, “Oh, please, she’s always been sensitive about that. And everything else! She’s such a little drama queen. If he had a functioning brain cell, he’d dump her.”
Well. So much for assumptions. He thinks again of emailing Amy, speaking of assumptions. It could very well be that her behavior the last time they were together embarrassed her, and she’s waiting for him to make the first move toward reconciliation. Probably he should wait awhile longer, though. Best not to rush these things.
He watches an older couple eating their lunch, and their ease and
Once more, Sadie moves to the wall and strains to see something through the cracks of the little shed, but it’s no use; all she can make out is a narrow line of green. She goes back to sit on the mattress and puts her head in her hands. Her eyes are swollen from crying. She has no idea where she is. She has no idea what time it is, and regrets the fact that she no longer wears a watch, that she relied on her cellphone for that. She hears a noise outside and stiffens, but apparently it was an animal; there are diminishing rustling sounds, then silence. A mountain lion?
She lies down and closes her eyes and waits, her body straight. Waiting is all she can do, and so she does it as well as she can.
10
S aturday afternoon, John sits on the patio at W. A. Frost, waiting for Tom Meister to show up. They’re going to have lunch and talk about financing John’s latest idea for refurbishing the hotel on Wabasha. Tom is the only mortgage banker John knows who’s a bit of a sentimentalist, a practical romantic, really; and that’s exactly the kind of banker he needs for this project. He’s worked with Tom before, and he likes him. They’ve developed a casual friendship; whenever a client gives Tom tickets for a Vikings or Twins game, he invites John to come along. For his part, John occasionally meets Tom for a drink and provides an ear for the man’s woes with the opposite sex. Tom is a thirty-seven-year-old womanizer who can’t settle down, but he likes to think the problem is much more complex than that. John just lets him talk. Tom’s got a good sense of humor and perspective; he’s not one of those guys sitting at the bar all hunch-backed and damp-eyed, blubbering into his beer. A few weeks ago, in fact, when he told John about his latest disaster, he slid onto the barstool beside him, loosened his tie, and began singing the lyrics from a country-and-western song: You done stomped on my heart/And you mashed that sucker flat . Then he ordered a boilermaker and some buffalo wings and said, “Okay, ready for this one?”
Tom is chronically late for most appointments, but every nowand then he shows up on time, so John always feels compelled to arrive at the appointed hour. Ordinarily, he brings a book or a newspaper, but this time he has forgotten. He could peruse the menu in the overly studious way people sitting alone do, but he already knows what he wants: the fried egg BLT and the curried carrot soup. He supposes he could check his email, but he did that not fifteen minutes ago, just before he came into the restaurant. He was looking for a message from Amy, which he did not find. He’d thought of sending her one, but in the end decided against it, not sure if he was honoring the need to give her or himself space. It had hurt when she left the way she did; but then, suddenly, it had not.
He leans back in his chair, watching people come onto the patio with the benign interest of a cat stretched out on a window ledge: Pretty girl. Nice briefcase. I know that man from somewhere—an actor at Dudley Riggs’s Brave New Workshop?
At the table next to him, two women sit down and begin talking in low tones with their heads practically touching. He’d bet anything they’re engaging in the time-honored practice of man-bashing. He discreetly moves a bit closer and hears, “Oh, please, she’s always been sensitive about that. And everything else! She’s such a little drama queen. If he had a functioning brain cell, he’d dump her.”
Well. So much for assumptions. He thinks again of emailing Amy, speaking of assumptions. It could very well be that her behavior the last time they were together embarrassed her, and she’s waiting for him to make the first move toward reconciliation. Probably he should wait awhile longer, though. Best not to rush these things.
He watches an older couple eating their lunch, and their ease and
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