Chapter 2: The Journey Home
"Well?" She queried as they were once more out on the sidewalk and searching for a taxi. While they were eating, time, in her fickle way, had altered from their indulgent ally and was now morphed into an openly declared enemy.
"Get in," Spinelli said brusquely ignoring her question while he held the yellow door open for her. "Grand Central and hurry," he instructed the cab driver, holding up several folded bills as a silent incentive.
The cab screeched away from the sidewalk to brutally merge with the ceaseless flow of traffic, their illegal trespass marked with a cacophony of indignant horns. The unanticipated force of acceleration threw her against Spinelli's side and he instinctively wrapped an arm around her to hold her steady. He stared down into bewitching dark eyes which were becoming more and more familiar to him with every passing moment all the while the where and when of their former acquaintanceship remained stubbornly elusive. Her breath gusted warmly against his cheek and he shivered in reflexive response to the sensation.
"Well?" She asked him again, this time prodding his ribs with a stiff forefinger that actually hurt a little, "What did you think of it?"
Spinelli sighed as he acknowledged defeat, "You were right, the food was great." He recited his surrender in an aggrieved tone of voice knowing full well that given his own recognizance he would never have given the little hole in the wall café a second glance, thereby missing out on possibly the best meal of his life. "Though the service was glacial," he couldn't resist one weak jab as she smiled demurely up at him, satisfied with her victory. Rolling his eyes, Spinelli once more pulled out his cell phone, "We'll be lucky to make our train on time."
A sideways glance at her face, the curve of her cheek and the lingering remnants of her smile caused his own lips to reluctantly form a corresponding grin. Spinelli usually wasn't a gracious loser in matters of the intellect or culture since most people couldn't hope to match his formidable knowledge base in either arena. Yet, he thought to himself without rancor, with an opponent like this one he could get quite used to being wrong if his reward was observing her simple transparent contentment at his defeat. Spinelli briefly wondered if that was one of the poetic definitions of love, the easy willingness to sacrifice something of such little ultimate importance as one's ego, in order to gain in return everything which truly mattered. If it wasn't then it ought to be and he was just the man to try his hand at penning such a deathless ode to romance.
"We'll make it," she said with quiet confidence, slipping her small hand trustingly into his larger one.
Her prediction proved to be correct though there was no time margin to spare. The train pulled out on schedule with Spinelli panting as he sagged back into his seat. His lips pursed irritably as he eyed her sitting across from him, composed and collected with not a hair out of place or a crease visible upon her fashionable black pantsuit.
"A little luggage," he mimicked her higher pitched voice, his breathing still ragged from his exertions.
It had taken him a solid ten minutes of pulling and hefting to move her multitude of suitcases, and even a steamer trunk, onto a baggage cart from the luggage area at Grand Central where she had arranged for it to be sent. Finally a porter materialized and shuttled the luggage to the train for them but not before Spinelli was fully convinced he had slipped a disk.
"I was gone for two years," she replied reasonably, not in the least perturbed by his ill humor, "You accumulate a lot in that amount of time."
"You can say that again," he grumbled, still feeling disgruntled at her offhand reception of his Herculean labors on her behalf. "You couldn't have flown with all of that," he said, his tone unreasonably accusing as though her mode of transport was somehow his business.
"I didn't," she smiled at him, "I took the Queen Mary II, it's the iconic way to cross the Atlantic."
"That's very old school," Spinelli said in awe, his irritation fading as he absorbed the romance inherent in her mode of travel. Suddenly a thought occurred to him and he asked uneasily, "Was there perchance a shipboard romance to fully round out the experience?"
Her entire body stilled as she stared at him in silent consideration of his remark. Just as Spinelli was finding he couldn't take one more moment of damning quiet and was going to add some falsely cheerful tag to his ill judged question, she finally responded.
"No," she said, the expression in her eyes clear and straightforward as she spoke, "There wasn't. more's the pity." She threw the last in as a gentle taunt but he didn't mind so relieved he was to receive the answer he wanted.
He should have left it there but some masochistic demon forced him to probe further as though he actively wanted to be hurt. "Yet, surely in two years, in France, in Paris, the city of love as t'were…" Spinelli trailed off, cursing himself for an unattractive, insecure fool who was assuming proprietary rights about something to which he had no legitimate claim.
She placed the fingers of her right hand up against her lips in a failed attempt to quell an incipient smile, "Two years is a long time and naturally there were…encounters." She gave a very Gallic shrug as though such interactions were both fully to be expected and yet, simultaneously of no consideration.
Spinelli didn't feel in the least like smiling. He bit his lower lip, disregarding entirely the myriad of dates he himself participated in over the last several years as he dwelt miserably on the correct interpretation of the euphemistic use of the word encounters. With a resigned sigh he abandoned the analysis, knowing it a foolhardy thing to want this sprightly creature to have stayed pure for him as he, in his ignorance of her very existence, most certainly had not. Surely he was not as much of a Neanderthal as all that.
Spinelli looked up from his ruminations, willing to start afresh, to reopen the endless dialogue between them untainted by unfounded jealousy when he stopped short, his next words dying unspoken within his throat. She was asleep, lulled by the motion of the train, her eyes were closed and her head rested at an uncomfortable angle against the window frame. Spinelli removed his worn leather jacket and solicitously draped it across her. She stirred and he was afraid he might have woken her but she simply gathered the jacket up around her and with a sigh of unconscious contentment continued sleeping.
He watched over her for the duration of the journey while he cudgeled his recalcitrant brain for the missing information about their shared history. She appeared to know much about him-his profession, his name, his love of Shakespeare. Yet, all Spinelli had gleaned in return was that she had spent two years in Paris studying art history at the Sorbonne as well as attaining a Cordon Bleu cooking certificate. While these achievements were indeed impressive, they were of absolutely no help in his frustrated attempts at excavating the mysteries of their shared past.
By the time the train pulled into the Port Charles station she was awake in response to some internal alarm clock. Spinelli knew full well if he had been the one to fall asleep in such awkward circumstances that he would have woken up with his hair disheveled, his clothes crumpled and a disoriented air about him. Yet, his traveling companion suffered from none of these shortcomings. Instead, she awoke briskly, looking entirely composed, alert and fully fashionable as from the moment their paths first crossed.
"Home sweet home," he said with a broad sweeping gesture while they prepared to disembark along with the few other passengers sharing their car.
"It's wonderful to be back!" She said with excitement, her cheeks were glowing red and her eyes sparkled with joy.
Spinelli tried to squash the ignoble feeling that he wished his mere presence could elicit such unfeigned delight from her. After all, it was only natural that she was giddy with anticipation as she thought of reuniting with her family.
"Is someone meeting you?" He asked tentatively, hating the thought that since they were now in Port Charles they would soon be parting ways.
For the first time since he had met her, she appeared uncertain. "No, I wanted to surprise them at home and so I was a little vague about my timetable. I guess I just thought I would take a cab but all my luggage…it won't fit."
"I can drive you home," Spinelli offered diffidently, "My car isn't large though and such an arrangement would require leaving quite a bit of your luggage here to be collected later."
She nodded her head in easy acquiescence, "That would be marvelous. I can easily leave most of my luggage and just take a few essentials. Are you sure it wouldn't be too much trouble though?" Suddenly she appeared shy and uncertain of what favors she could reasonably expect him to proffer.
"It is no trouble at all." he said with fervent sincerity, "I was dreading the impending moment of separation. Since you still hold an unfair advantage of recognition over me, I shall endeavor to utilize our extended time together in an effort to rectify that grievous inequity."
"Feel free to try," she teased him as she started toward the luggage car, her natural self-assurance fully restored.
"Wow!" She said appreciatively a few minutes later as she caught sight of Spinelli's sleek little sports car gleaming softly in the vapor lamps of the train station parking lot. "She's a beauty."
Spinelli smiled proudly as he began to load her drastically reduced number of suitcases into the trunk of his car. "She's a convertible…" he said tentatively as he waited for her to pick up on his unspoken desire.
"Really? That's wonderful, can we have the top down then?" She pleaded right on cue.
"You're sure you won't be too cold? It's still only May and the nights, as you may have forgotten, can be chilly."
He wanted her to be comfortable but he also longed to drive the car as it was meant to be, free and open to the elements. Spinelli hadn't had many opportunities himself here in the frigid north to have the top down on his newest and proudest possession.
"Absolutely," she clapped her hands with excitement, "We can turn the heater on if it gets too cold." While Spinelli worked at lowering the roof, she peered intently at the car trying to ascertain its true color beneath the camouflaging affect of the ambient lighting. "Powder blue," she finally declared, satisfied with her discernment, "What a pretty color."
"Powder blue," Spinelli squeaked indignantly, "I beg to differ, the color is the very naturalistically inspired 'Pacific Sky'."
He stalked around the car and reached around her to open the door, every rigid inch of his body proclaiming his injured pride. He would have given vent to his feelings by slamming the door once she was safely ensconced but he thought it was unfair to take his temper against one of the females in his life out upon the other entirely blameless one.
By the time Spinelli had paid his parking toll and they were pulling out onto Van Ness Street, his ire had spontaneously evaporated. She hadn't said a word for several minutes and he didn't want their final precious moments together to be spent in resentful silence.
With a conciliatory tone, he asked, "Whither am I bound, oh fair mistress?"
She bit her lip and looked at him uncertainly before replying in a small voice, "Harbor View Road."
He turned left and headed north through the downtown area of Port Charles, happy that the car journey was to be extended for a while. "The Jackal most humbly apologizes for his prior bad humor. The color which originally seemed such a lovely choice in the show room has since that moment been a point of sore contention and I allowed the accumulated brunt of such remarks to fall unfairly upon your slender shoulders." He shot a sideways glance at her, catching little but a dark sheen of hair as her head was turned away from him while she stared intently out upon the city from which she had been so long exiled. "If you wish to call the color powder blue the Jackal will concede it is so since you are the possessor of the more artistic eye among the two of us." He was desperate for her to say something, even if she was angry with him, he just couldn't bear her indifference.
She gazed over at him, her expression inscrutable in the pools of darkness between street lights. "I like Pacific Sky," she said simply, "It makes me think of driving Highway One through Big Sur." She leaned back into the seat and looked up the sky, the chill wind rippling the dark sheet of her hair.
"Perhaps someday the three of us could undertake such an epic journey," Spinelli said wistfully. "There is much of the world the Jackal wishes to explore and has yet to see little more than his home in Tennessee and the Empire State, while imposing as she may be, is not enough to assuage my wanderlust."
"Mine either," she said in uncomplicated agreement, "Though I must admit it feels wonderful to be back home. I can hardly wait to go Kelly's and get a chocolate milkshake and hamburger!" Her eyes grew dreamy at the idea of indulging in such a quintessential American treat.
"Aha, which reminds me," Spinelli chimed in happy that they were once more talking, "The Jackal is still very much at a disadvantage in his knowledge of you and your antecedents here in Port Charles. So, I reserve the right to query you in an effort to ascertain who you are before it is too late and we have reached our journey's end."
There was a flash of white as her teeth gleamed briefly and she laughed, "Why does the journey have to end," she asked with an unfeigned wistfulness, "Why can't we just keep driving north and we could continue to play the game…"
"We could," Spinelli agreed rather liking the concept of the two of them held together in the confines of his car as the sped north toward the unknown, "Yet, we would soon encounter the Canadian border and while I surmise you have your passport with you, I regret to say that I do not."
"I distinctly remember you as being some one who was much more about seizing the moment and living without regard to the conventions."
Her face was invisible to him now as they sped along the dark curves of Harbor View Road where the wealthy of Port Charles sheltered in their expensive enclaves away from the noise and chaos of the city. Yet, her voice held a mild disappointment as though this current version of Spinelli was failing to live up to her idealized memories.
"Well, be that as it may, it seems that spontaneity would be as thwarted and pragmatism instead sustained were we to travel all that way only to be unceremoniously turned away and hence finding ourselves right back where we began. Yet, if it is your desire that we attempt such a Quixotic attempt to breach the barriers of our constant neighbors to the north, your wish is but my command." He made the offer sincerely since it would mean more time in her heady presence and give him the opportunity to prove himself not so changed from the person so recalled from so many years before.
"No," she said with a resigned sigh, "It would be silly if only I was allowed to cross and there are people expecting me soon and it wouldn't be polite to let them down after being gone for so long."
Ever alert to an opportunity to learn more about her, he asked with a sly insouciance, "Would I be acquainted with those who await your return with breathless eagerness?"
She giggled unselfconsciously again and Spinelli decided it was fast becoming his favorite sound. "Yes," she said with an irritating lack of elaboration.
"Do I know them well, are we friends?" He was becoming serious about this bizarre game of twenty questions.
Spinelli was finding it more and more difficult not knowing who she was since she appeared to be heading fast toward permanent possession of his vulnerable heart. It had been a long time since he had allowed anyone to creep under the hard carapace he had created to shield himself after his prior catastrophic debacles on the blood stained field of romance.
"Some more than others," she replied cryptically as she trailed her hand airily out alongside the car, loving the feeling of the cool air brushing against her exposed skin. "We were all at your non-wedding though," she finally conceded a valuable clue, "As well as the reception afterward. The karaoke singing was great fun."
"You were?" Spinelli asked with excitement at the thought she might have finally given him a tangible lead as to who she might be. He then groaned with frustration as he recalled that between himself and Maxie a large proportion of the city of Port Charles had been in attendance at both the ceremony and the reception. He racked his brain furiously as he tried to place this enchanting creature with some group amongst the guests but failed utterly.
"I thought it was one of the most romantic acts I ever saw outside of books and movies," she added, her voice suddenly sounding both nostalgic and achingly young.
For the first time since they had encountered one another there was the faintest stirring of memory within Spinelli's mind. Something about what she had just said in terms of both the phrasing and the actual sentiment called to mind someone saying almost those exact same words all those years ago.
Before he could further explore these elusive tendrils of remembrance she spoke again and offset his concentration, "Oh, look," she exclaimed, turning in her seat to look across him, "Greystone Manor, everything is both so familiar and so alien at the same time, how can that be?"
"You are acquainted with Mr. Sir?" Spinelli asked her cautiously, not sure that was an association he was pleased to discover as they sped past Sonny Corinthos imposing property.
She was once again looking out along the other side of the road, straining to catch glimpses of the moonlit river between the extensive estates blocking her view. "I am indeed and he with me." She was back to toying with Spinelli while he was trying to process the few pieces of the puzzle that she had so far deigned to share with him about who she was and what defined her place in their mutual community of acquaintances.
"Is this our final destination?" He queried, removing a hand from the steering wheel to gesture toward the mansions surrounding them on either side of the road, "Are these the homes of your neighbors and friends like Mr. Corinthos Sir and perhaps the glacial fashion maven Kate Howard." Spinelli couldn't remember a single case which had so aggravated him as the simple act of learning who this bewitching creature was and how those mysteriously tantalizing ties could potentially affect what the two of them might eventually become to one another.
"My mother is great friends with Kate Howard," It was a simple statement of fact.
Yet, it did nothing to help Spinelli determine who she was. The clues were now coming at a fast and furious pace and Spinelli felt ashamed to find his vaunted detective skills to be found so utterly wanting. Obviously, the old axiom that doctors ought not to treat their own ills must also apply to private investigators taking on themselves as clients.
Finally the dreaded words were uttered as she pointed up ahead to one of the few intersections which wasn't a private driveway along Harbor View Road, "Turn left here, please."
Spinelli peered at the street sign as it was briefly illuminated by the car headlights. Looking was more of a reflexive act than something he really needed to do because he was perfectly familiar with the street, if you could call it that. She wanted him to drive down River Lake Road. It was a narrow, graveled lane lined by cottages which were not geographically far from the imposing mansions of Harbor View Road. Yet, from both an aesthetic and economic viewpoint the neighborhood was located in an entirely different universe.
Now Spinelli knew the hourglass was, for all intents and purposes, empty. The houses on River Lake Road were mostly summer homes which were maintained by caretakers for nine months of the year. Next month, in June, the seasonal residents would start turning up for long weekends while some of them would be occupied for the entire summer by the college aged sons and daughters of their absentee owners. Still, few of the homes on the rural road were resided in on a year round basis.
The headlights of Spinelli's trim roadster cut through the unrelieved blackness with only the fleeting shine of a startled rabbit's eyes, caught briefly in the light's glare, giving them any sense of their being any other beings in the world beside the two of them. "Which house?"
He asked as a matter of form's sake because by this point in the road he knew there to be only one possible answer. His palms on the steering wheel slipped a little damp as they were with nervous perspiration. His pulse was racing and he shot a little sideways glance at her, longing to catch a final glimpse of her lovely profile but he was denied his heart's desire. The frail rays of moonlight couldn't manage to penetrate the overarching branches, newly dressed in their spring foliage, of the trees entangled above the dark road, and there was no other ambient lighting to aid him in his vain quest.
"Number fifty-seven," her voice held a different timbre than it had all evening, now it was full of a mixture of yearning and excitement. She sat forward in her seat, all intent eagerness as she strained against her seatbelt to see what they both knew lay ahead around the next bend.
The car slowed seemingly as though of its own volition though Spinelli vaguely registered his foot on the brake. There it was, coming inexorably into view, the final house on River Lake Road, number fifty-seven, the Davis residence. "Are you visiting the Davis family?" He asked her, his tone full of confusion while his mind tried and failed to process the implications of this last piece of the riddle.
Abruptly she transformed from a composed and enigmatic young woman into a volatile little girl full of jittery nerves and poorly concealed anticipation. She ignored Spinelli's tentative question and, leaning impatiently across him, tapped the horn in several sharp staccato beats which split the night's silence with a high pitched squawk of sound entirely alien to the peaceful setting. Her method of garnering attention was successful as the door to the cottage opened, revealing a rectangular bar of light. A crowd of people spilled out onto the front porch and looked expectantly down the length of the short driveway.
Spinelli brought the car to a stop with an accompanying spray of gravel that he didn't even register as being potentially damaging to his car's paintwork, still so confused was he by their unexpected destination. "Who are…" but he didn't even have time to finish the question before she was out of the car and flying toward the group assembled on the porch. One familiar figure was already stepping off the porch and onto the driveway and was the first to intercept her in her frantic flight.
"Whoa, Molly," he said with concern, reaching a hand out to steady her though there was a slight underlay of amusement to his voice, "You don't want to fall and mess up that fancy outfit you're wearing."
A/N: Reviews are appreciated