Dale didn't turn around as Oliver walked down the hall and away from where she was stood – away from her. There was no need to turn around. She had gotten the message. She just felt numb. She had gone without sleep for over 24 hours, steadfastly awaited his rescue, and then paced the floor eagerly waiting to see him at the hospital. Suddenly he was there and she was the lone woman to great him. Without thought she clasped his unshaven face in her hands. Then came what to others would have seemed harmless even thoughtful words, "Thank you, for everything."
"I wish I could take the credit but it was Shane who made the call." She would not take credit for anything she hadn't done. It was not who she was. It was not who they were to each other.
And then came the final words, "Where is Shane?"
He may as well have said, "Thank you for everything you have done but where is Shane?"
When you have known someone almost 16 years as she had known and coveted this man and their friendship, she heard the flood of unspoken words he was communicating. It was in his tone. It was in his eyes. This was thank you for 16 years of friendship. Thank you for your patience, for coffee after choir, for lunch after church, for understanding. This was drawing a line of formality between them that she would not be able to cross again.
She so wished she could take credit - credit for the change she had sensed coming in him – credit for the fact he had laughed more easily as of late. She wished she were the one he most wanted to thank - that hers were the arms he wanted to great him - that her face was the face his weary eyes most wanted to see.
Somehow it felt more like good-bye, than thank you.
It seemed like a lifetime ago when their developing relationship was blown apart by an exploding mail box. Then there was his marriage that left her frozen out of his life as anything more than a nice lady-friend at church. The timing had never been right in the past. Trusting the timing could be difficult. And now she had allowed herself, if only momentarily, to believe that perhaps this would be her time, their time.
Had the detective totally missed the clues? She didn't know Shane McInerny even existed until just a few weeks ago. He had never mentioned her. He had introduced her as a co-worked, a colleague. He refered to her as Ms. McInerny. Yet last night she saw a woman who was obviously, vulnerably, deeply in love with Oliver O'Toole. That doesn't happen overnight.
And with the look in Oliver's face when he asked, "Where is Shane?" Dale knew that this time, for the final time, her time with Oliver was not to be.
Dale calmly walked out of the hospital. She was Special Agent Dale Travers and she had work to do. She reached for her keys. There would be paper work, emails and voice mails waiting for her at the office. She unlocked the car door. Think, think, she needed to think. She started her car. Was she to complete that on-line form for this rescue or did it go to the park ranger? She put the car in reverse. She looked over her right shoulder to back out of the parking lot. And she stopped.
There it was - lying on the back seat of her car – Oliver's choir robe. The lump quickly formed in her throat and she swallowed hard. "To everything there is a season and a time for every purpose under heaven. A time to laugh and a time to cry."