"Isn't this a marvelous place to hold a romance writers' conference?" I asked Ada as we sat down to lunch on the porch of the restaurant overlooking the lake.
"Oh, it sure is," she agreed, "and to think that I almost didn't come. I'd never heard of Winnisquam, New Hampshire. I've learned a great deal in the last three days, and, Claire, your talk was terrific. I remember when you said that it was well known that readers liked full descriptions of the food the characters ate. Then you pointed out that meant that most romance readers were probably overweight women who were very fond of food but who still had dreams of being swept away by some gorgeous man." We both laughed. Ada quickly stopped laughing when she came to a sudden realization, "I guess I'm one of those readers since I've always had a weight problem."
"Don't forget to practice describing the cuisine whenever you get the chance," I reminded her of a tip I'd given.
"Oh, yea, like now. Another thing I'd never thought about was . . ."
I was distracted by the feeling that someone to my left was staring at me. I looked up and saw a man looking at me with a smile. I quickly looked away. He was standing three tables away, talking to the manager of the resort. I remember a feeling of fear going through me at that moment. I thought of how I would describe him--tall and strong with a well-proportioned physique and an air of mystery. I ignored him and tried to concentrate on the conversation. Ada was talking about the novel she was trying to write, her first.
By 1983 I had enjoyed enough success to be invited to talk at that five-day conference. I had published six romance novels all of which luckily had sold very well. They were sweet romances in the mold of Barbara Cartland's in which the heroine always found the right man but never lost her virginity until after the marriage ceremony. I had been very nervous about presenting my talk but later realized I shouldn't have. After all, I had been a good student at Bryn Mawr where my professors had encouraged me to become a novelist. Of course, they never had romance writing in mind.
". . . so this friend," continued Ada, "decides she's going to write a novel, too, but she comes up with this plot where this woman falls in love and marries a man who is a bigamist. Can you imagine wanting to write something like that?"
"No. Why do so many writers want to write about depressing subjects?"
The next day a short hike was scheduled in the early afternoon to discuss settings, but I decided to skip it. Since my arrival I had not had any time for the solitude to which I was accustomed. I went to lunch late and half way through, a male voice with a French accent interrupted my solitary mood.
"I hope you are enjoying your lunch."
"Oh, yes I am, thank you," I was startled but managed a calm reply. It was the man I had caught staring at me the day before.
" . . . and the fantastic view of that beautiful lake, too. Do you mind if I join you, Miss?"
"Well, I'm not going to be here for very long." He ignored the statement and took a chair anyway.
"You came for the writers' conference, right?"
"Yes."
"It is not hard to notice you. You are so beautiful." I was 26 but looked deceptively younger. "My name is Alain LaPierre, and they've told me you are the famous romance novelist, Claire Moon. I'm very pleased to meet you," he declared as he made a slight bow with his head and looked right into my eyes.
I responded courteously, all this time hurrying to finish my lunch and not looking at him very much. I felt nervous but thought I was doing a good job of hiding it. Now that I had gotten a closer look at him, I realized how handsome he was, but what most impressed me was his unrelenting confidence. He was so polished that it seemed like he had rehearsed his lines at least 40 times. He looked to be around 45 with an exciting tension in his voice and movements.
"I've always admired people of great accomplishments especially people who have gone so far at an age as young as yours, and being a woman doesn't seem to hold you back in any way."
"No. I'm definitely a believer in women's rights." He asked me questions about the conference and the talk I had given. He was warm in his manner and quick to laud me at every opportunity. "I have to be getting back now," I told him.
"I regret that I couldn't have the pleasure of your company a little longer, but I'm going to insist that we get together tomorrow evening for dinner so that we can take up this sparkling conversation once again." I wasn't prepared for the suggestion, and he noticed my hesitation. "Oh, come now. I'm sure you can spare a little time in your busy schedule."
"Well, O.K., I guess it'll be all right." I had never been particularly outgoing or quick to trust strangers, but I decided a dinner date at the same familiar restaurant was safe. I was sure nothing would come of it.
The next evening I was treated to a sumptuous dinner, which I was happy to practice describing. He then slowly led me into conversation that lasted well into the night without my noticing it. He revealed that he was the owner of the resort, and talked about how much he enjoyed managing his many properties in the United States and other countries. He invited me to visit him soon at his estate on Long Island, which was close to the estate John Lennon once lived in, but I did not accept. He asked for my address and telephone number, but I had a policy of not giving out my telephone number because I lived with my grandmother who had a heart condition and slept often. I always tried to give her every consideration. She had raised me since I was four.
On Friday he drove me in his Maserati to catch my flight back home to Staten Island. He promised to write. I received a letter the following Tuesday and again for the next several days. I didn't answer, assuming that his ardor would soon be extinguished. They were long, elegantly written letters. Each one became more melodiously romantic in tone and each day my enjoyment of them increased. He soon told me he had just finished reading all my novels and had enjoyed them very much. The day that I was sure he would not send any more letters came and went but they kept coming. He suggested meeting for dinner some evening in the most exclusive restaurant in New York City, the Jeune Fleur. He said it was known only to the cognoscenti. It didn't even have a sign on the front.
I finally answered his letters. I told him I might be interested in going to dinner, but my grandmother was going through a serious crisis in her illness, and it would probably be several weeks before I could go. Although private-duty nurses were taking care of her, I still felt I should stay home as much as I could. I felt like I hardly knew him but that was changing. From his letters, he seemed trustworthy, kind, and honest. I didn't write a letter a day like he did, but he was on my mind almost all the time. One day I realized how much he was like the ideal romantic hero I had been creating for my novels, drawn in turn upon the guidelines circulated by the romance book publishers. When I went back to look at my third novel, Finding Mr. Right, I found that the hero was almost the identical Alain LaPierre, both physically and temperamentally. I wondered whether there might not be something supernatural involved.
We eventually made arrangements for dinner. I insisted on meeting him there so I could have my own car to come home in. The days before the date I kept fantasizing what it would be like. I remember staring out the window for hours like I had done since I was a child. Then the morning of our planned rendezvous, my grandmother awoke with sharp pains in the chest and stomach area. I called Alain at his resort, but he had already left. Neither was he at his Long Island mansion. I felt I couldn't leave my grandmother so I simply didn't go. I was sure he would be upset that I hadn't notified him and didn't blame him. I immediately sent a letter of explanation, knowing it wouldn't reach him for several days. When his answer came, it started with the usual greetings and continued
" . . . . I was naturally disappointed when you didn't come. I waited for four hours just in case you got there late. I wanted that much to see you again, that inspiring smile, those enchanting eyes, that melodious voice announcing such perceptive thoughts. I grow fonder of you every day. I know you must have a good reason for not appearing. There must have been something unexpected that came up. Maybe your grandmother got sick. I trust that . . . ."
He was an angel, so understanding. I felt so reassured by his response. At the end of the letter, he regretfully announced that he had to go stay at his private Caribbean island where he stayed every winter. It was now November and he was long overdue, having stayed just in order to see me.
He continued to write long letters to me from his island called Plaisance. It was five miles long and almost as wide, and he owned it entirely. He often mentioned how happy he was that he had it all to himself and didn't have a single government telling him what to do. He was kept busy in spite of having a manager over the entire island along with other administrators and numerous workers and servants. He said there were certain duties which he simply could not delegate. He told me how much he wished I could be there and then mentioned, for the first time, that if we were married I would come live there all the time. I wondered what was so important on his island to keep him there the whole winter without leaving.
I enjoyed being independent and was proud of my professional success, but I played with the thought of being married and still continuing my career. It could offer me the financial security that would give me the option of not having to work so hard at making a living for myself and my grandmother. Besides I didn't know how long I could keep writing romance novels that always had to follow the same formula, and the romance field could dry up anytime. I'd thought about trying something more challenging but wasn't particularly eager to start. On the other hand, I had no idea what I might do with my grandmother. She had to stay close to her doctors so she couldn't come live with us on the island, and yet I couldn't imagine leaving her.
When Alain returned to New York in May, we had no problem in meeting at the Jeune Fleur. I was enchanted. I thought it had the most romantic ambience imaginable. I had seen other exclusive restaurants, had read of many more, and had imagined others for my novels, but there had never been anything like this one. In the center of the floor, there was a large sculptured fountain with cherubins playing around the water. The entire restaurant was inlaid with oak including posts, walls, banisters, and doors. The lighting was set at an ideal level with gaslight and candlelight.
Alain had arranged for a table that was cozily isolated from the others. He ordered a bottle of red French beaujoulais, vintage year 1943. As he talked, the candlelight danced on his face, which made it seem so much stronger to me. He made an excellent choice of dinner which began with a tart of olives, anchovies, and onions, tartelettes Bugnard, filet boeuf roti in brown Madeira sauce with truffles, and a delicious Black Forest cake. It was like nothing I had ever eaten before. Of course, I had a great time practicing my description of the food and the surroundings. I was so impressed with the decisive way in which Alain ordered the meal and later called for the waiters to bring more food. I thought of radio psychologist Toni Grant to whom I listened all the time. She said that men had to be given the feeling that they were capable of taking care of women and that women should let them know that it was appreciated. I gave Alain my telephone number that night. He called every day but continued to also send letters.
A month later I accepted his invitation to his Long Island mansion. He sent a chauffered limousine to my home to pick me up and talked to me on the automobile's telephone. He told me he had just returned from his island. He had needed to go back for a week. The estate was an immense holding with a large pond, a golf course, and a large garden with marble stone walks. The castle was three stories high and had 32 rooms with antique furniture that was exquisite.
At dinner the servants were very attentive and were directed by a lady named Martha, who was dressed very elegantly. I again practiced describing the food--the soup was bouillabaisse a la marseillaise, a lobster and aurugula salad, tortelli stuffed with butternut squash and sidled with slabs of grilled duck, supremes de volaille Henri IV, meuniere, and for dessert a mascarpone souffle. It was like nothing I had ever eaten before. The candlelight was low and helped give a feeling of intimacy. Afterwards, Alain led me to the drawing room, where I was delighted to find a small chamber orchestra tuning up to play. They were dressed in 17th century clothes. They played several Baroque pieces. I then remembered that in New Hampshire I had told Alain that I was fond of Baroque music. After the concert ended, Martha came to tell Alain there was a phone call for him from the island. I took the opportunity to tell Martha how much I had appreciated the dinner as well as everyone's cordiality. I added rhetorically, "Mr. LaPierre is a very nice man, isn't he?"
"Yes, he is. I've worked for him for 8 years now and I've enjoyed it. I must warn you, though. He does have his eccentricities." She said it with a serious look on her face that trailed into a sly smile as she walked out of the room, "Excuse me, I have to write a letter."
After Alain returned, we discussed the music, and it was not long before the whole house was very quiet. We were sitting on a sofa next to the window.
"There's a beautiful moon looking at us through the window, and it's inviting us to enjoy it," he said softly as he got up to open the window curtains and turn off the light. The moon did cast amazingly beautiful light and shadows inside, almost as if the room had been built specifically with that purpose in mind. He continued to tell me about different features of the mansion. I expected he would soon take me into his arms and felt sure that he would do it in just the right way. It seemed like a long time had passed when he finally took me in his arms and kissed me in one quick motion. As our kisses grew deeper and more intense, I wondered what he would do next. How far would he go and how far would he expect me to go? Earlier I had been shown my own bedroom, and from all appearances I would get to stay in it alone, but might he decide to try to come and share it with me? For the first 15 minutes, all he did was kiss me passionately and press his hands against my back and shoulders. I expected his hands to start wandering toward more alluring pastures. I didn't know what I would do when he moved his hand down. I had never allowed that to happen so soon after meeting someone. His hand would sometimes move up my stomach toward my breasts but then never reach quite that far. I wondered again how much he would push to share my bedroom tonight, and what had Martha meant about his "eccentricities"? Was he some sort of sexual pervert? And how would Martha know? We kissed for what seemed like hours.
Then suddenly he said, "I'm sorry but I am feeling very tired now. I was constantly kept busy at Plaisance." He led me up the stairs to my bedroom. "I hope you sleep well. It has been delightful to have you here. I've been waiting for months for this, and I am absolutely enchanted."
"And I'm having a wonderful time," I said as I went in.
After my return home, I kept thinking of Alain. I thought about what a real gentleman he was. Apparently he had never intended to push anything sexual between us. He wanted to wait until it was right. I decided to dismiss Martha's comment as an off-the-cuff, jesting remark about some minor quirk. Or it could have been that Martha was fond of Alain and trying to scare me off. Martha was older but still attractive, and it was conceivable that Alain could become interested in her.
Two months later Alain invited me to his mansion for a weekend. He had been very busy between the mansion, the island, the resort, and other properties. We spent much time outside boating and swimming. After Sunday dinner we sat and talked quietly. He announced without warning, "I've thought it over carefully, Claire, and I think we should get married. I think we get along marvelously, and I am so very much in love with you. You would live at Plaisance, and I know you would find it enchanting. You would also have plenty of time to continue your writing career because there everything would be done for you, and I would be too busy to put many demands on your time."
I didn't know what to say. As with other decisions, he didn't seem to have any doubts at all after making up his mind. I said, "I do love you very much, Alain, but what about my grandmother? How can I go . . ."
"Don't think I'd forgotten about her. I'll pay for the very best nursing home around. It's no problem."
"She has been saying that she wants to go to a nursing home for some time now, but I've heard so many bad things about them. Let me think about what to do with her."
"Of course, but I do have to go back to Plaisance in early October. I hope you'll say 'yes' before I leave, or otherwise I'll have to live another winter without you."
"Oh, that is a dreadful thought, isn't it. I'll try to come to a decision as soon as I can."
My grandmother was not surprised when she heard about Alain's proposal. I had told her many things about him. She expressed reservations that we hadn't known each other long enough, but she approved of the marriage. She had kept a close eye on me as I was growing up, but in the last few years she had relaxed more. I did feel uncomfortable about not being able to see Plaisance before getting married since I would live such an isolated existence there. It took several weeks to make all the necessary preparations including finding a good nursing home for grandmother. This only left time for a small wedding ceremony at Alain's mansion, after which we had to rush off to Plaisance.
It was a five-hour flight. Alain piloted all the way. On the approach, one could see the astounding blue of the water, an impressive waterfall on the beach, and dense, luxuriant trees and grass. I noticed towers that looked like small lighthouses placed at distances along the beach. As we flew past one of the towers, I noticed that machine guns were mounted on them with men watching over the ocean. Alain noticed that I had seen the guns and said, "Those watchtowers are necessary to keep out intruders and busy bodies, and no one can leave without clearing through me. Besides, the only safe way to leave is by my jet. If someone were to leave by water, they could be eaten by sharks. There are many out there." Down on the beach, I noticed a large number of young women in very scant bathing suits. Without exception, they had very well-constructed physiques.
From the airplane, we were quickly driven to the building where we were to stay. There were five large and very impressive buildings modeled after the palaces of the 18th-century French kings. All over the grounds could be seen more pretty young ladies walking around leisurely in bathing suits or very skimpy clothes. Alain introduced me to the many servants as "the new Mrs. LaPierre." After dinner, we went to the bedroom, which was every bit as luxurious as I had expected. I was very excited about finally consummating the marriage.
When I woke up the next morning, I found that Alain had already left. I thought about how romantic I had felt. A black woman came in and asked what I wanted her to bring me for breakfast. After she brought back the breakfast, we talked. She was very courteous and helpful. She told me that I would not be living in the building we were in.
After I looked out the window and saw more young women, I asked, "Who are all those young women walking around the island?"
"That's right. None of you ever know that when you get here. Ma'am, those are Mr. LaPierre's 40 other wives."
The hot, dry August wind was just the way Dave Phillips remembered it in El Seco. It had been at least 10 years since he had been back, but childhood memories were still vivid. As he drove west on the freeway, he could see how the housing subdivisions had spread to the foothills. The city had been one of the fastest growing in the country. He had enjoyed his childhood here, and his parents had chosen to remain even though he had pleaded with them to move where they could be closer to him. They had in turn begged him to come back to El Seco, but it had been out of the question. He had established an excellent reputation as a neurosurgeon in New York, associated with Columbia Presbyterian Hospital. He worked longer hours than he liked but otherwise it was very satisfying to be at the top of his profession. Coming back to El Seco, even as the top surgeon in the city, would simply be out of the question. No matter how much he might enjoy coming back to live closer to his parents and in a place where he had developed early roots with people still around whom he remembered as childhood friends, he knew he wouldn't be happy. There wasn't a laboratory where he could become involved in research, something he thought he might like to do someday.
He wondered how El Seco was for a single man. There was certainly an abundance of women in New York City, but supposedly that wasn't the case here. An old friend had complained about that, but more importantly he said, many women didn't seem very impressed with a professional man. He was a sharp, good-looking accountant working in an established firm.
In spite of all, he still enjoyed coming back to see old friends and he was especially excited about this afternoon. He was driving to Michelino's, an old winery hidden in the hills on the west side of the city, near the Mexican border. The organizers of their 20th year high school reunion thought it would be a good spot to meet. It was supposed to be informal so Dave was wearing a pair of white shorts and a short-sleeved maroon polo shirt. He was looking forward to seeing many of the people from his Coronado High School class of 1970. He had known some of them since grammar school. There had been about 600 graduates, and he probably knew about 400 of them even if only distantly. He had taken out his old yearbooks last night to help him refresh his memory on names and faces.
In school, he had never been one of the popular people nor one of the members of the "in" social groups that came into existence, but he had distinguished himself by making good grades and coming out often on Dean's List. He hadn't been conscious of it at the time, but he had yearned to be popular and held in special esteem. He had thought about it in more recent years and realized how much of a force a feeling of inadequacy had been toward his drive to excel. He remembered how he had daydreamed of going on to be some great success and have everyone he had known in school talk of how great he was. They would tell their friends and remind their relatives that they had known him; it would make them speak proudly of having gone to school with him; the newspapers would refer to him every so often as a great El Secoan who had made a name for himself. At first he had dreamed of being a great baseball player who would be seen on television all the time. That fantasy faded as he found that he could rise to being no more than an average player on the high school baseball team. He found that he could shine in academics and so shifted his goal to becoming a doctor or engineer. His supporting dream of success stayed with him through high school, through college, and even to some extent, after he had already become a doctor.
Dave wondered about two people he remembered in particular. One was Margaret Hawkins who had turned him down when he had asked her to go to the Junior Prom. It had been an upsetting disappointment. It was true that he hadn't known her especially well, but he had been confident that she would accept. She didn't have a boyfriend; it was said she didn't even date very much. He had walked up to her in the hall right after English class and very calmly asked her if she would be his date. She said "no" politely, but curtly. It was immediately clear that she could not be moved to reconsider her firm decision, and she gave no explanation.
She showed up with someone else and he found another date, too. Her date had not been anyone special. Dave didn't think she knew him much better--spent the whole evening trying to figure out why the other guy and not him. His date was a girl he had known for many years from close by in his neighborhood. He had brooded on Margaret's rejection not only that evening but for a long time to come. Dave wondered now whether she had any regrets about that rejection. Lately he had caught himself fantasizing a little on what might happen if she were single like he. He had heard that she was still an extremely beautiful woman and so inevitably not one who would be in any way needy of men who would be interested in her. In fact, she had been so attractive that she had moved to Hollywood soon after graduation to seek a career as an actress.
As he drove up the hill and came within sight of the winery, he could feel nervousness. He had hardly seen any of the people in the intervening 20 years. He could hear music coming from the large, old stone building. Dave said "hi" near the entrance to a guy named Jay who was standing there as if waiting for someone. He was trying to remember his last name but couldn't. He hadn't known Jay very well.
The music was coming from an old jukebox, old songs from the time like "Tracy," by the Cufflinks, and there were already a hundred people. A band was setting up, Lonnie Leroux and the Lancers, made up mainly of graduates from the previous class of 1969. The first person Dave ran into was Fred Farrell. They hadn't seen each other since graduation, and Fred was jubilant. He introduced Dave to his wife who had gone to a high school on the east side of town. Fred was overweight but he had always been stocky. He had played tackle on the junior high football team. Dave had also been on the team but never went on to play in high school. He had always been very thin. They immediately went into exchanging the usual information on what each had been doing since the last time they had seen each other. Fred said he had been in insurance for many years and was impressed with Dave's accomplishments.
As Dave later talked to Mike Gonzalez who had been in American History and other classes with him, he kept looking out of the corner of his eye at different people and noticed Mike was being distracted in the same way. "God, there's a lot of people here I can't remember," Mike said chagrined. "Who's that over there? Is that Jenny Saunders?" Dave wasn't sure who it was, either. They both agreed that it was hard to recognize many of the others.
Dave then spotted Janet Stevens. She looked surprisingly attractive and youthful, about ten years younger. It was not that Janet had been ugly, she had just never looked this good before. It was not her looks, however, that made him eager to talk to her as much as memories that came back to him across the years. He remembered how she always beat him in grades in school. She sat in front of him in both fifth and sixth grades, and no matter how hard he tried he couldn't get better grades than her. In the early grades he hadn't really cared that much about grades, but he sometimes got it in his mind to beat Janet in a test and it was mainly because she seemed so arrogant. She was often bossy and most of the other kids would pick up on this and taunt her for it. Dave would try to get back at her by doing better in a test because she seemed to take so much pride in being at the top off the class. Sometimes he would get a better grade than her but that was rare. He wondered what her reaction would be when she found out what he was doing now.
As soon as he had the chance in the conversation, he found an excuse to walk to where Janet was talking with some of her former girlfriends. When he had the chance, he tapped her on the shoulder. "Hi, Janet."
"Dave, Dave Phillips," she exclaimed sounding almost ecstatic. "You look great. My God. I haven't seen you in so long. I think it was right after graduation."
"That sounds about right. You're looking great yourself, like about 10 years younger."
"Oh, come on now. Don't exaggerate. Do you remember Donna Rains and . . "
He remembered some of the other women vaguely and got reacquainted with them. After 10 minutes of mixed conversation, he had the chance to talk to Janet individually. "So are you in town or living somewhere else?" she asked him.
"I've been out of El Seco since graduation."
"You must have gone away to college?"
"Yes, I did."
"Where did you go?"
"Princeton."
"So what are you doing now?"
"I'm in New York. I'm in neurosurgery."
"Oh, isn't that something. We're both in the medical field. I've been a nurse for 15 years now. I've enjoyed it immensely most of the time, but I'm starting to get a little tired. I may take a few years and stay at home. My husband said it was fine with him. We could manage fine on just his income. What area did you say you were in?" She seemed a little distracted with the noise around.
"Neurosurgery."
"What exactly do you do?"
"I'm a doctor."
"Oh, a doctor. You're one of those. You all think you know so much, but I'll tell you I've trained many a young doctor in my day. Doctors just don't seem to appreciate how important we nurses are."
"I'm afraid you're probably right."
"Aside from all that money you guys get, I sure wouldn't want to be a doctor. Too much pressure, and you don't get the chance to really be personable with the patients. We nurses can do so much more good in that respect. Oh, Emily, Walt, it's great to see you," she turned to meet a couple that had gotten married after being high school sweethearts. A conversation got started with them and Dave sidled away before very long. He had not known the couple very well. He realized how she still felt superior even if she was below him in status.
He walked to the place where the kegs were located and after pouring himself a long-neck noticed Margaret Hawkins. He paused to get a good look at her as she stood talking to two men, who seemed entranced with her. That wasn't surprising. She looked as good as ever as she talked with her arms half-crossed, her left hand held at the side of her face, very composed. He wanted to talk to her but noticed how nervous he felt. He was determined to talk to her so he started walking across the room to where she was. How would she react to him? What were her thoughts now on what had happened back then? He hoped for a chance to talk to her privately, intimately.
"Hey, Dave, how you doing?" a friendly man engaged him in conversation. "Good to see you." The face was definitely familiar, but he couldn't get the name to come back to him. He kept trying to sneak a peek at the man's nametag but couldn't get a good look and didn't want him to notice his straining to see the name. After a couple of minutes, he remembered it was Leo Aceves. They talked for 15 minutes but it started to make Dave uneasy. He worried that Margaret might leave early. He wanted to talk much more to Leo. They had become good friends in chemistry class, but he hoped they could continue the conversation at a later time. Luckily someone else came up and Dave was soon able to excuse himself. Margaret was now surprisingly standing alone.
"Hi, Margaret. How've you been all these years? Remember me?"
"Uh," she hesitated a little. "I think so."
"I heard you had moved out to the West Coast."
"Yes, I've been there all this time. It's great. I love it."
"What are you doing now?"
"I'm afraid I have to confess, vain me. All these years I've been trying to be a star but haven't done much. I have managed to get some bit parts in some television shows recently."
"That's great. Most people don't even get that far no matter how hard they try."
"Yes, I've been thinking lately I ought to be pretty proud of myself, and on top of that, I've raised two nice kids." She stared ahead wistfully as if realizing that a woman approaching 40 couldn't go much further.
"Well, if you haven't made it big yet, it's not because of lack of good looks. It's a rough world out there in Hollywood. I think that's pretty well known by now."
"I hope so. I hope everybody doesn't think I haven't been working at it or that I have no talent because if there is anything I've found out for sure, it's that I am a good actress."
"I remember your being in Senior Play, and everybody thinking you had done real well. What was the play? The Crucible, wasn't it?"
"Yeah."
"I also remember you were just about the prettiest girl in school. All the guys always used to talk about you, including me. Do you remember me asking you to go to the Junior Prom?" David was surprised to find himself getting into the subject he had thought about for so many years. He didn't feel as nervous as he had at first.
"Uh, well, I, huh, think so." She now had a very confused look.
"I remember calling you on either a Saturday or Sunday afternoon. Of course, you seemed surprised since you didn't know me very well. I think we only knew each other because of Government class."
"Is that right?"
"I don't know why I thought you might possibly be interested in going with me to the prom. There were so many other guys you knew. What did you think when I called you? You sounded surprised."
"Well, I guess I . . ."
"I know, you probably already had a date."
"To tell you the truth, I've got a terrible memory and I . . ." At that moment an old girlfriend of Margaret's came up and touched her. They both yelled in surprise and hugged. They apparently hadn't seen each other for many years. They went on to a long conversation. Dave was not included and eventually faded away.
As he walked away, he felt disappointment. He felt the conversation had been going in the right direction. She seemed attentive and very sincere, but it was disappointing that they had not been able to go any further. He soon ran into a guy he had known since junior high and they started reminiscing.
As they were talking, Dave noticed Ricky Inman standing across the room. If there was anyone he was more curious about than even Margaret Hawkins, it was Ricky Inman. He hadn't changed that much except for a decided expansion of the breadbasket. Actually Dave could see, from the beer Ricky was holding in his hand, that it would more properly be called a "beerbasket." His face was still very recognizable.
He had first known Ricky Inman in the fifth grade and suffered perhaps the most traumatic experience in his life because of him. It had left a deep-felt impression that still remained in his consciousness. He hardly knew Ricky at the time. He was in another class and didn't live in his neighborhood. One day while in the schoolyard during lunch, Ricky came up and said some boys told him that Dave was the one who had taken the air out of his bicycle tires. Dave immediately protested that he hadn't done such a thing, but Ricky wouldn't listen and instead threw him on the ground and started slugging him hard. He was mad. He was also 20 pounds heavier than Dave. He yelled, trying to tell Ricky that he didn't even know what his bike looked like but Ricky went on to push Dave's face into the ground as he lay on top of him. The ground had been covered with gravel that now cut sharply into his face. The bell rang and Ricky finally got off.
In the classroom, Dave sat numbly. He could hear the teacher talking in what seemed a faint distance but he wasn't listening. His face was burning from the gravel cuts, and his body was aching. Worst of all was the mixture of humiliation and anger that seemed to override all his senses at the moment. It was an experience that he had never forgotten. For several weeks, his mind kept returning obsessively to the incident, replaying every painful detail. He thought about revenge and started studying how to become a better fighter, but the chance never came for a rematch. Years later in high school, Ricky was still a tough guy, running around with a hard crowd, but Dave had been able to overcome most of the bitterness. He eventually realized that it was this incident that probably started the fantasy of becoming a great success. He wondered how Ricky was doing now. Ricky had never distinguished himself in school in any way. He hadn't heard anything about him after graduation. Dave thought about he would go over to talk to Ricky. He wondered whether to bring up the time Ricky had beat him up in fifth grade.
Dave went to get another beer as he thought about the approach he would take. After talking to Jeff Solaroff briefly, he walked over to Ricky.
"Hi, Ricky. How you been? Remember me?" Ricky looked at him quizzically but was friendly. Dave noticed that his nametag said, "Richard Inman."
"Uh . . ."
"Dave Phillips."
"Oh, O.K."
"We met in fifth grade. We weren't in the same class, but I remember knowing you."
"Fifth grade? I don't know I remember anything that far back," he said with a chuckle.
"We used to play in the playground sometimes. Then in high school you used to hang around with Jimmy Perez who lived a couple of blocks from me."
"Oh, yea, good ole Jimmy. I see him every once in a while. He still hasn't changed much."
"Remember Jimmy used to give me a ride to school sometimes?"
Ricky wrinkled his brow, "I'm really sorry, but I just can't place you, and, hey, you're not the only one. There's already been a couple of other people who said they knew me but I couldn't remember them. Lucky I didn't have to admit it to them." He laughed. Dave was impressed with how gentle and sincere he seemed. "So what kind of work are you in?" he asked Dave.
"I'm a doctor."
"Sounds great. I've been doing pretty good as a truck driver. The only bad thing is I have to be on the road away from home so much, but my wife is very understanding. Do you know Terry?" he asked as he turned to her sitting down next to him. She smiled as she and Dave exchanged greetings. They had never met, but Dave was surprised that it was Terry Owens, one of the most beautiful girls in the class behind them. He had admired her in high school. He now remembered hearing that they had gotten married soon after high school. "The money's unbelievably good," he continued. "I made $60,000 last year, and I like getting out there on the road. Wouldn't trade anything in the world for it. No offense, but I wouldn't want to be a doctor. Too much hassle, and you have to be cooped up inside all the time. I've got to be out. Yeah, we've done real well." They talked a little longer then someone Richard knew came up to greet him, and Dave quietly walked away.
He felt frustrated and confused. He hadn't gotten the feeling that Richard was trying to put him down in any way. He seemed completely sincere and straightforward. He liked Richard now. It had been like getting acquainted with a complete stranger.
As Dave gathered a few finger sandwiches and salad items on his plate, a friendly woman started talking to him. She seemed very jovial. He didn't remember her at all. After they filled their plates, they stepped aside and kept talking.
"My name's Cindy, Cindy Waltermire." Dave strained to remember her but couldn't. He told her his name, and before he could say much else, she said, "If you can't remember me, don't worry. Hardly anybody else does and I don't remember you. As a matter of fact, I'm sure I never knew you. You see I moved to the Coronado area in the middle of senior year and hardly got to know anybody. I knew there wouldn't be much use in coming, but I decided to anyway. I figured there was really nothing to lose."
"Hey, I think it was a great idea. Even if you don't know that many people, you still have a lot in common with us." Dave actually felt relieved that they didn't know each other.
"I've met some great people and had a lot of fun. How long did you live in the area?"
"Oh, I've known some of the people here since third grade."
"Oh, my. Listen, don't let me hold you up. You must have a lot of people you have to talk to. You better go on and stop wasting your time with me."
"Hey, don't worry. You're fun to talk to. Besides I'm bored trying to talk to my old friends." Dave and Cindy talked for a very long time and got to know each other.
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