A Wedding in December_ A Novel - Anita Shreve [93]
“Definitely,” he said.
Harrison watched as Nora did a little run up the front steps and disappeared inside the front door. When he turned, Jerry Leyden’s face was inches from his own.
“You can always tell when a guy’s still carrying the torch,” Jerry said.
“What?” Harrison asked. Jerry’s nose was running. His teeth were the translucent blue of overwhitening.
“I once Googled my old girlfriend at Kidd. You remember Dawn Freeman? She’s a sheep farmer now in Idaho. Whew, glad I didn’t go there.”
Harrison wished Jerry would back up a step. His breath stank of stale coffee.
“Hey, listen,” Jerry said. “I didn’t mean to jerk you around last night. About Stephen? I know you loved the guy.”
Harrison said nothing.
“Just seems like we all got away with murder, you know what I mean?”
Harrison’s hands were fists in his pockets. It was all he could do to keep them there. “You’re an asshole, Leyden,” Harrison said under his breath as he turned to walk away.
“Branch, wait a minute,” Jerry said and caught the sleeve of Harrison’s jacket. Harrison looked down at Jerry’s fingers. Jerry let go of Harrison, and Harrison faced him.
“Look,” Jerry said, “I don’t know what happened that night at the beach. I’ve been needling you, and I really don’t know why. To be perfectly honest, I think it’s myself I’m angry at. That night, when I got back to the dorm and found out Stephen was missing, I felt so . . . I don’t know . . .” Jerry looked down the hill and then back again at Harrison. “Helpless,” he said. “Stephen was dead before we knew it, and there we all were—alive. Really alive.” Jerry yanked off his gloves. “It was the same with 9/11. All those bodies falling, and there I was. Alive. I can’t describe it. It makes you feel sick inside. Guilty, sure. Angry, you bet. But the really terrible feeling is helpless. I fucking hate feeling helpless.”
Harrison took a long breath, and Jerry stuffed his gloves into his pockets.
“Stephen was a beautiful guy,” Jerry said.
Harrison got behind the wheel of the Taurus and spun out of the parking lot. He had no destination, merely an urge to push the car forward, to have it make some noise.
The long drive to the inn had been plowed, but almost immediately Harrison realized he would have to slow down. He didn’t want to end up in the trees at the side of the drive because of Jerry Leyden or Stephen Otis or anyone else from his past.
He shut Jerry’s face and voice out of his mind. He hit the road that led to Nora’s inn, skidded a bit in the turn, and followed it back to town. When he had driven to the inn the day before, he’d been searching for signposts and had paid little attention to the village. This time, he made note of a post office, a bookstore that looked promising, an elementary school that resembled a factory, and two other inns, both of which he viewed competitively, taking Nora’s side. He didn’t think she had much to worry about. The first was a pink-and-purple Victorian house that promised “all-you-can-eat” breakfasts. The second was a modest B and B unhappily situated next to a Mobil station.
Harrison parked the Ford on the main street and walked, hands in pockets, snow still melting inside his sneakers. He needed a pair of dry socks. He passed an odd structure and glanced at the sign on the porch. It was the town library, the Holy Grail of his profession. Actually not, Harrison reflected, remembering the bookstore, the true Holy Grail of his profession, with its sales and promise of profits. The library was a curiosity, though, a large yellow Victorian with rounded turrets and stone columns. He imagined the building, during an earlier age, as the home of one of the town’s more prosperous citizens—the local doctor, a venerable judge. As Harrison climbed the steps, he tried to picture Carl Laski doing the same. Or stopping at the bookstore. Or nipping out for an early morning doughnut on the way to the college. Would Nora have been with him?
Once inside the library,