Rooms - James L. Rubart [91]
More memories surfaced. Late-night walks with her somewhere, along narrow beaches? The ocean? Yes. How long ago? Seven, eight years ago? More? Less? “I live in Seattle. I started a software company.”
“You’re kidding. Software? Really? That tweaks my mind, I gotta tell you. Didn’t think you’d ever go that direction, not with the passion you had for your—”
“Wahhh!” The woman’s baby split the air with piercing cries in rhythm with the tapping feet of a man standing behind her.
One glance at the perfectly pressed maroon polo shirt, spotless tan slacks, and a frown line to match told Micah this guy was the jealous type and didn’t appreciate the enthusiasm this woman was pouring out.
“Uh, honey, more than two people here,” the man said.
A slight grimace ran across the woman’s face before she turned toward the man. “Right, right, right. Honey, this is Micah Taylor. We dated for a while years and years ago; I probably told you about him one time or another. Micah, this is my husband, and this is my little prince.” She lifted the baby out of his stroller and set him on her hip.
“Passion for what?” Micah said.
“What?”
“Passion for what?” he repeated.
“I’m sorry you lost me. What passion for what? You mean, what am I passionate about?”
“No, you said something about being surprised I started a software company because of my passion for . . .”
“Oh, right. Yes, yes, yes.” She laughed as she set the baby back down in the stroller and wrapped a dark blue blanket around him. “Don’t tell me you’ve abandoned it. I never saw you giving up your dream.”
The woman’s husband cleared his throat without much subtlety, and she whipped around to face him. “Honey, don’t get your knickers twisted into bunches. We’ll go in just a second. I just want to get Micah’s info so we don’t lose touch for another six years.”
They exchanged e-mail addresses as he tried to put the puzzle pieces together. He wouldn’t be able to question her in detail, not with Igor standing over them like a Puritan chaperone at a high school dance.
“Gotta run, Micah. Great seeing you. Don’t give up the dream.”
“What was the dream?”
“As if you didn’t know!” She laughed and clipped away.
Was it impossible for anyone to give him a clear answer? If not software, what was the dream?
||||||||
When Micah got home, he walked through the house not going anywhere in particular, looking for—hoping for—inspiration and answers. He wound up looking down the hallway that led to the painting room.
Good idea. Time to see if anything’s changed.
He eased open the door and the painting came into view. Definite changes; subtle, but significant. The outline of two people had been added at the left edge of the painting, and near the water it looked like a little boy would build a sand castle.
“Take me into that panorama, Lord.”
The next thought followed quickly. What had he lost in Seattle?
Micah called Shannon and made up a paper-thin excuse for checking in. Once again she told him things were fine at RimSoft. Maybe he was wrong. Maybe perfection had landed on him like a butterfly and would stay forever. He hung up somewhat reassured but still uneasy. No matter what he told himself, he couldn’t shake the feeling of disaster rumbling inside.
After dinner Micah sank back in his overstuffed chair in the great room and tried to drift off. He was tired of thinking, tired of praying, tired of trying to figure out what God was doing to his life.
To his lives, plural.
He’d almost slid over the edge into sleep when the phone rang. “Yeah?”
“Hey, you,” Sarah said.
“Hey back. I was just thinking about you.”
“Good thoughts?”
“Great thoughts.” Micah smiled, his eyes half closed. He stood and wandered over to his couch in front of the fireplace, letting himself freefall backward into the overstuffed cushions strewn on top.
“Wanna have some fun?” Sarah asked.
“Rhetorical question, right?”
“Yes.”
“The idea?”
“Nehalem’s Art Festival. How ’bout we go down