A Wedding in December_ A Novel - Anita Shreve [29]
The girl, Harrison remembered now, was walking across the street, slightly ahead of him. Harrison could see the pale blue of her cloth coat, the way her woolen scarf was wound around her neck several times, pushing her hair into a chestnut bubble that rocked gently from side to side as she strode. Unlike Harrison, she didn’t seem to notice the cottages and the piles of leaves around her. She didn’t look into windows or into backyards. Rather, she seemed instead to be staring at a spot perpetually five feet ahead of her on the road.
Harrison increased his pace, ratcheting it up from stroll to walk. He wanted to overtake the girl, if only to see her face. He thought he knew who she was. She was new to his class that year. She had come from somewhere in the Midwest. He’d seen her crossing the campus and in the dining hall. Her name was . . . Sarah? No, something else. Nora.
She walked with her hands in the pockets of her coat, and she never broke her stride. Harrison easily drew even with her but was reluctant to close the gap. If he glanced over at her, and she at him, he would then have to speak to her and possibly even walk with her. And though he found the prospect of that conversation and walk exciting, he sensed that the girl might not welcome the intrusion.
Harrison was near enough now to see her chin and a fan of dark eyelashes. The carbon-laden smoke was thick and delicious in the cold air. She was the girl he had imagined. Nora. Nora what? He wondered what so preoccupied her thoughts that she did not even glance up.
As he drew closer to her, it occurred to Harrison that the girl could not possibly be unaware of his presence. At the very least, she had to have heard his footsteps. He could not remain slightly behind her and not speak to her, because to do so might seem as though he were following her. The girl would be bound to increase her own pace, or, worse, whip around and confront him. Harrison had a dilemma.
In the end, he had little choice. Reluctantly, he drew even and glanced across the street. He said hello, hesitated a second, and then kept walking.
Aware of her gaze on his back—a gaze that burned and seemed to cause a concavity there—Harrison moved with a false sense of purpose, as if he had a destination. He had had just a glimpse of her face (the dark eyes not startled but slightly wary; she had not returned his greeting), and too soon he reached the gate at Kidd. He did not want to enter the school grounds, and only a tremendous physical effort kept him, as he paused at the gate that was not really a gate but more of a wrought iron arch, from turning around to look in her direction. He ought to have done so, he thought now. What would have been the harm? He might have pretended to have to tie a shoelace. However lame and transparent the excuse, the delay might have given him a chance to speak to her. He would have asked her what dorm she lived in. If she ever walked the beach instead of the road. And (screw Stephen) they’d have gone together to the dining hall and had their lunch, sitting across from each other and, he imagined, finding connections—teachers they might have shared, classes they liked or did not.
Of such momentary decisions, Harrison thought now, were entire universes constructed. Had he spoken to Nora that day, she might have become his girlfriend instead of Stephen’s. There would not have been the scene at the cottage.
He got up from the stone wall and searched for the place where the path headed back to the inn. Chance constructions could not be undone, Harrison knew. Momentary decisions could not be disowned.
Though the trip up the hill had taken nearly forty minutes, it was only fifteen down, and Harrison returned to the inn with sore knees and a good appetite. He wondered if he’d missed lunch. He noted a sign in the lobby for another wedding (had it been there earlier?): KAROLA-JUNGBACKER REHEARSAL DINNER, PIERCE ROOM, 7:00. When he entered the dining room and sat down, a waitress appeared with a menu. The lunch entrées were few