The Marriage Recipe. Michele Dunaway
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“But that doesn’t matter. You name me the dates, and if I’m not required in court, we’ll go flying. And I will definitely be at your feast.”
“Good.” Libby seemed satisfied, and dinner continued. Afterward everyone hung out in the family room for a while before Kristin took the girls home around seven-thirty.
“Hey, Mom, do you still have my high-school yearbook?” Colin asked, walking into the kitchen. “I was looking for it at my place the other day and couldn’t find it.”
“If I do, it’s in your old bedroom,” she said. She loaded the plates into the dishwasher.
“You know I would have helped with that,” Colin said.
“Yes, but I told you I had it.” She straightened. “What do you want your yearbook for?”
“I realized I had the other three but not my senior year’s,” he said. “Thought I’d just grab it while I was here.”
His mom wiped her hands on her apron. “I think it’s on your bookshelf.”
Colin climbed the back stairs two at a time to the second floor. The house had a third floor, but that was mainly a big playroom that only the grandchildren now used.
His mom had redecorated some of the other rooms, making them more kid friendly for the grandchildren, who stayed over on occasion, but Colin’s room remained largely untouched. He’d left behind his old childhood furniture, opting to buy a new king-size bed instead of keeping the twin he’d grown up on. He had removed most of his childhood mementos from the room, although they were stored in a box in his basement instead of holding a place of prominence in his own home.
Since his old room was located on the east side of the house and faced the side yard, he had one four-foot-wide window instead of two or more like many of the Victorians. He flipped the light switch, activating the lamp, and moved toward the bookcase, situated near the window and still lined with high-school and college texts. The shelves also still held aviation magazines, a golf trophy from a charity match and, on the bottom shelf, his yearbook. He leaned down, removed it and straightened. As he did, a flash of light caught his eye. He stood there in the window, clearly in view, before reaching down and turning off the lamp.
Rachel was in her room. He couldn’t see her clearly without binoculars, something they’d both used until their teen years. But behind the sheer curtains he could see her silhouette as she stood there, staring across the way—right at him.
When he was a child, none of this was forbidden. He’d take his flashlight, let her know he was there, and they’d send Morse code messages across their yards until one of their parents would discover they were still awake and yell at them to go to sleep. Never once had there been anything sexual about their communication, even when he’d been in high school and realized his feelings for Rachel went beyond friendship.
So why did he have the impression that unlike when they were children, he was somehow a voyeur, a Peeping Tom? And as he saw Rachel lift her arms as if removing a T-shirt, try as he might, he couldn’t get his feet to move one inch or his head to turn.
A light flashed across the way, a small circular beam like from a flashlight’s. He froze. Had she spotted him? He hadn’t been in his room long. He’d turned off the light and was hidden in the darkness and the blinds were only open a sliver. The beam flashed two short, then one long. Then a pause with no light, then one long flash before the light went off again. She’d communicated two letters. U then T. Their code for You there?
She must have seen him moving around earlier. His silhouette certainly didn’t match his mother’s. If Rachel had watched him walk in, she would have recognized him. Is that why she’d signaled?
His eyes, accustomed to the room’s darkness, sought the flashlight that had lived on the bookshelf. His fingers reached for it, but found nothing. His mother might have removed it.
Across the way, Rachel’s flashlight had fallen silent. He could use lamplight to answer, but that would illuminate him. They’d never done that to communicate.
His cell phone would have to do. He drew the blinds, flipped the device open and held it open for a long, then short, then two long flashes. The letter Y.
Yes. I’m here.
Funny, how easily the knowledge returned. When he’d first learned Morse code, he’d had to glance at a sheet of paper to spell out words. He hadn’t used the code in thirteen years, yet the dots and dashes came easily as he and Rachel began to “talk.”
What did he say? she asked.
Ninety percent yes, Colin flashed back. Will know for sure by noon.
How was dinner? she sent him.
Great. Nieces here. Been invited to a school feast. This is like old times. Fun.
Agreed, she returned.
Colin stood there for a second, trying to figure out what to say next. He was supposed to be a professional, and here he was acting like a child and sending messages with his cell phone’s display light. Heck, years ago they hadn’t had cell phones. Now he could just dial Rachel up and talk to her that way. But here he remained, in the dark, enjoying the illicit thrill of communicating this way.
“Colin? Are you up there still? Did you find it? Do you need some help?” his mother called.
Colin quickly flashed three letters, G-T-G, his and Rachel’s code for Got to go, which usually indicated one of their parents was about to bust them.
He shoved his phone back in his pocket. He was thirty-one years old, and his mom was about to discover him in his old bedroom, flashing his phone at the girl next door. She wouldn’t understand. He grabbed the yearbook off the bed, and as he left his bedroom, he ran into his mother as she rounded the corner. “I found it,” he told her, taking four steps down the hall.
“Oh,” she said. “I was starting to wonder what was keeping you. I mean, I thought I’d seen your yearbook last on the bookshelf.”
“It was in my closet,” Colin fibbed, glad he was behind his mother, who’d already turned toward the stairway. He clutched the book to his chest and followed her down into the kitchen. “I’ve got to get going. It’s getting late,” he told her.
“Okay,” she said. She gave him a quick hug. “Stay safe.”
“I will.” With that and a quick goodbye to his father, Colin was soon outside and climbing into his sedan. The driveway was on the opposite side of the house from Rachel’s window, so he couldn’t see if she was still in her bedroom. Once he backed out, a maze of tree branches should block any clear view.
But somehow, he saw her standing in the window as he drove by.
RACHEL SIGHED and set her flashlight down on the bed. Her mother was one of those home-safety types who had flashlights that also served as night-lights plugged into at least one outlet in every bedroom. Rachel had grown up knowing an evacuation plan for fire, tornado and earthquake. Considering that fire had destroyed the diner, maybe her mother’s better-safe-than-sorry attitude wasn’t so hard to understand.
She glanced around her bedroom. Little had changed since high school. The antique white canopy bed had been in the room for years. The wallpaper was Victorian—faded cabbage-rose wallpaper that had become cream colored with age. Only the white lacy bedspread was new.
Growing up, Rachel had always wanted something more modern. Her apartment decor had leaned toward black and chrome, befitting a New York City studio whose only view was the building next door.
A knock sounded, and her mother entered. Rachel stood five-seven; Adrienne Palladia topped out at five-two. “I brought your laundry,” she said.
“You didn’t have to do that,” Rachel said, rising from where she’d been flopped on the bed.
“It was no problem,” her mom insisted, setting the white circular basket on a