The Last Time They Met_ A Novel - Anita Shreve [40]
Thomas stood at the entrance to the dining room, freshly showered, in a white shirt and gray V-neck sweater. He hadn’t seen her yet, and for a moment, she was able to examine him. He seemed taller and trimmer than she’d remembered from the day before, but perhaps that was just his posture. He seemed less unkempt and more relaxed as well. Or happier. Yes, it might be happiness.
—You’re quick, he said, meaning her showering and dressing. He unsnapped his napkin and placed it over his lap. The humpbacked waitress immediately brought another cup of coffee to the table.
—I was hungry, she said.
—I’m ravenous.
She smiled. This might be awkward. What would be expected would be arrangements, tentative promises. Why don’t we plan to meet? one of them would have to say. I’d like to see you again, the other might feel compelled to offer. She wondered if it was possible to live episodically, not planning for the future, not even allowing thoughts of the future to enter into her consciousness. Though such thoughts might be necessary and primeval, the need to plan a vestige from the days of hoarding and storing for the lean months.
—When does your flight leave? he asked.
—I have to head for the airport right after breakfast.
—I’ll go with you, he said quickly.
—When is your flight?
—Not until this afternoon. But I won’t stay here. I’d rather be at the airport.
They would go home on different flights. It seemed a waste, all those hours of separate confinement.
They ordered extravagantly, and it was impossible not to see something of a celebration in that extravagance. When the waitress had left, Thomas took Linda’s hand, holding it lightly by the fingers. The men in golf shirts at the next table looked like boys compared to Thomas. Underdressed. Ill-mannered.
—Hull is not so far from Belmont, Thomas said tentatively.
—We could meet in Boston for a dinner sometime, she offered.
—You could — theoretically — come visit your aunt in Hull.
She smiled. Yes. I could theoretically do that.
—I’d like to meet your children, he said.
—They’re both in institutions right now.
Thomas raised an eyebrow.
—I mean only that Maria is at Johns Hopkins, interning.
Thomas nodded. Across the breakfast room, she saw the man who had lost his umbrella at the entrance to the hotel. He was dining alone and reading a newspaper. Beside her, she heard the middle-aged daughter say, And when does your own therapy start again, Mom?
—I love raspberries, Thomas said, contemplating their rarity in that northern city in April. Cooked raspberries, especially. Jean used to make these muffins. Oat bran with raspberries and peaches. God, they were good.
A sensation, not unlike a shiver, quickly passed through Linda. She felt with the shiver the rare sensation that she was exactly where she should be. She was an idea, a memory, one perfect possibility out of an infinite number. And whether she was inventing this notion from need or it was simply a truth floating in the universe, she couldn’t say. And wouldn’t question. She and Thomas would ride together in the taxi to the airport, a ride she would remember for the rest of her life, which she decided would be long.
They said good-bye at the gate, not making too much of the farewell, for to mark it excessively might suggest finality, which neither of them wanted.
—I’ll call you, Thomas said, and she did not doubt that he would. He would call her that evening, in fact, already minding a night apart. To think . . . he said, and she nodded, her face close to his. She held his hand tightly, as if she were drowning, and her helplessness seemed to move him. He kissed her for such a long time that she was certain that others now were watching them. Thomas stood at the gate as she walked down the ramp, and she could not resist turning to see if he had waited.
She had been assigned to a window, though normally she preferred the aisle. She took her seat, noticing