Chapter 7

Charlie and his Prozac ended up on Highway 101, and he traveled the coastline toward Oregon. Some days he drove less than 60 miles before he stopped again for the night at some small roadside motel that looked as dilapidated as he felt. He spent hours at scenic viewpoints, wide pull-outs off the road. If the path to the beach was not too steep or too long, he would carefully pick his way down. He would find large logs of driftwood to sit on or lean against, and watch the ocean.

One day, during the second week, he couldn't stop driving. Even though his knee ached and he was hungry, he drove for nine hours, and was well into Oregon when he finally stopped. It took him five minutes to get out of the car and check into another small motel.

His sleep was still off-kilter. He would go days subsisting only on stolen naps taken in the car at scenic viewpoints, watching home shopping channels on the television all night. Then he would crash again, for 12 hours or more. Once, in Bandon, Oregon, he awoke at 3 a.m. to find himself standing on the covered sidewalk in front of his room, wearing only his boxers and a t-shirt, and extremely grateful that he hadn't locked the door when he left. He hurried inside and leaned against the door, heart pounding, wondering how long he'd been wandering around out there and what had finally awakened him.

The next day, he sat on the beach behind the motel and for the first time, wished he had his laptop. He had been gone almost three weeks.

While he was trying to decide what that meant, he watched a woman coming toward him, from the ocean's edge. She limped on the wet sand, struggled mightily when the sand became dry and sank beneath her feet. He began to sit up straighter as she appeared to zero in on him. He had settled too close to the path back to the motel…but the large driftwood log had been convenient, and he was tired after his busy night.

She reached him, smiled, and sat on the other end of the log. She was barefoot, carrying a pair of flip flops, which she dropped onto the sand below. She brushed her hands off on bare legs. "That's not as easy as it looks," she finally said. "I've had a bad year." She lifted her left foot a little. "Broke my ankle on Christmas. Slipped on the ice."

He didn't know what took possession of him at that moment, but Charlie hadn't had a real conversation with anyone, beyond ordering breakfast or booking a room, for weeks. He indicated his cane, leaning against the log. "Sledge hammer to knee," he said.

She looked slightly taken aback, and he thought she would ask why he took a sledge hammer to his knee, but instead she pointed to her mouth. "Root canal in January," she said. "It got infected."

Charlie grinned a little. Did she really think she could win this little competition? He picked a malady. "Perforated ulcer," he countered. "Emergency surgery."

She crossed her arms across her chest and squeezed her eyes shut for a moment, thinking. They popped back open and she smiled broadly. "March. Pneumonia." She called him, and raised. "Car accident in April. Concussion."

Charlie was glad it was only the third week of May. Otherwise, she might win. He rolled up the sleeve of his t-shirt to show her the scar from the burned bullet graze. He needed a double-header, here. "Shot. Then burned." Just in case she thought they were even, he added the piéce de resistance. "Two skin grafts."

She peered carefully at his arm, then deflated and looked out toward the ocean. "You win. You have officially had a worse year than I have."

Charlie laughed. "Cheer up. It's only May."

She looked back at him, and returned the laugh. It was a low, throaty, almost gutteral sound, and it reminded Charlie of Amita. Just that quickly, the shades were drawn over the pinprick of light he had allowed himself to feel. He was immediately frustrated. In the hospital, his father had promised him that he wouldn't feel bad forever. He had wanted to believe him then, and he wanted to believe him now, but Charlie felt as if it had already been forever.

Charlie reached for his cane and pushed himself up off the log. With a face suddenly as closed as his heart, he looked briefly at her. "I hope you enjoy your stay. It was nice meeting you." He said it quickly, turning, and he barely had time to register the confusion and disappointment on her face before he had started up the path to the motel.

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Cecile looked at Don as he eased the SUV into a parking space at the clubhouse. "This was a good idea. We haven't been to the driving range since Andrew still lived here."

Don shut off the engine and smiled at her, then reached into the back seat and came back with one long-stemmed red rose, which he offered her. "Happy anniversary," he said.

Cecile automatically accepted the rose and stuttered. "A…ann…anniversary?"

He was still grinning. "One year ago tonight. You came to the driving range with Andrew, and I gave you a ride home. We stopped for pie on the way. That counts as our first date."

Cecile was humiliated. She was the woman. She was supposed to be the one who had a handle on things like this. "Oh, Don…" She looked at him in obvious distress. "I'm so sorry. I can't believe I didn't realize…"

He leaned over and kissed her over the rose until she felt her toes curl. When he finally pulled away, she just stared at him, breathless.

He grinned, again. "It's okay. This way I can do something cheap, like take you to a driving range for our anniversary instead of a romantic dinner somewhere — and you're still happy."

She slapped him with the rose — careful not to hit him with any thorns — and his smile became tender. "I know. You'd be happy, anyway. Right?"

This time she placed the rose carefully on the seat beside her before going in for the kiss herself, and soon the two of them, both thirty-something, were necking like teenagers. She finally forced herself away. "Listen…" she rearranged her blouse a little, and reached a hand to her hair. She took a breath. "We either have to get out of this vehicle now — or move to the back seat."

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She was still embarrassed that she hadn't made this connection herself and done something special for Don, and Cecile promised herself that she would make it up to him. She was glad he hadn't gone for the big, fancy dinner somewhere. Bringing her back here, to the place they had first acknowledged their mutual attraction, was perfect.

Reaching blindly behind her into the bucket for another ball, she smiled to herself as she remembered that night a year ago. Andrew, Charlie and Alan had all been here, but she and Don had virtually ignored them. The driving range had been busy that night, and there weren't enough open spaces for them all. Don had noticed that first, and invited her to share a slot. Then he had picked the one opening that would separate them by the furtherest distance from the other three.

Her smile slipped as she thought of both of their brothers. She always worried about Andrew, with his job as a police officer, and she wished again that he hadn't moved to San Diego. L.A. was certainly not a safer place to be a cop, but she wanted to be able to get to him quickly, if something happened. And Charlie. He'd been gone for almost four weeks, and had been increasingly distant for a few months before that. She missed him, and knew it was worse for Don, and Alan.

"Ouch!" She had caught a finger on something in the bucket. Or maybe a bee had stung her. She turned around, brought her hand up and saw that her finger was fine — she had hit something sharp, but had not cut herself. She leaned over to look in the bucket of balls for the offending item. Her eye was immediately drawn to a glint, and she cautiously moved a ball to get a better look.

"Oh. Oh my…," she breathed, as recognition hit her, and she looked in shock at Don, who had been standing a few feet away watching her. He didn't speak. He didn't smile. In fact, he looked scared to death.

Her hand shook as she drew the offending item out of the bucket. She slowly straightened, and dropped it in the palm of her other hand. While she stared at it, in shock, Don moved out of her range of sight. When she realized that, she tore her attention away from her hand to look for him again.

He was still where he had been, but he had dropped to his knees, in the middle of the driving range. His voice shook when he said it. "Will you marry me?"

Cecile looked again at the ring in her hand, and felt her own knees buckle.