Becky
Prodigy’s Promise
(Prepare to Be Exhausted)
Chapter 1
Becky
Sam has always been my Galahad, Don Juan, and Don Quixote rolled into one. He satisfies me in ways I never thought possible and leaves me aching for more. We are so spiritually synchronized that we share dreams. No, I don’t mean that we share descriptions of dreams but actually dream together!
No lie! When he first told me, I thought he was pulling my leg, but the next few times I made him tell me his dreams first. I was so flabbergasted I started to believe in psychic connections. Can you imagine—me, Becky Hoffsinger, earth-woman, becoming a new age queen? Hardly! Still, it’s almost as if we had one soul in two bodies.
That is, until the last few months. It’s April 2004 and Sam has stonewalled me since early February. I no longer feel him inside of me. His thoughts are foreign and his body cold.
At first, I thought it was my fault. I’d been working on a manuscript for my next novel and had a deadline. I was intense and focused but finished with time to spare. My agent loved it, but more importantly, I was satisfied and ready to reconnect with my husband. To my dismay, he wasn’t there. I tried everything, including a weekend away from the kids, a long bike ride, his favorite comfort food, and lots of loving sex. I even cut my hair short for the first time in forty years, hoping it would jolt him out of his silence. No response. Admittedly, I regretted that sacrifice the moment the first strands of hair fell on the floor. My long ginger waves have been my signature since I was a little girl. It doesn’t matter that they’re now peppered with gray. They are still me.
I mourned the loss, and felt a little resentment, even though I knew Sam had nothing to do with the decision. In any case, I got over that emotion and still no Sam!
Next, I turned to the kids. They had been particularly obnoxious the last few months. What could you expect from a sixteen- and eighteen-year-old? They are great kids, and I know Sam loves them to death, but they can be a handful. So, I arranged for my parents to take them to their beach house in Malibu. It’s a white monstrosity on a hill overlooking the ocean and a five -minute walk to the water. They could resume their surfing lessons. With them gone, I expected at least some frank conversation with Sam, and if I was lucky, some intense loving. He protested repeatedly that nothing was wrong, yet he maintained that cool distance.
I cried myself to sleep silently every night. He was there only in body. How could I have lost him? Another woman? I didn’t think so—I would feel it. There was something deeper, more insidious, as if his past was haunting him. I always sensed he withheld a part of it from me. Our connection in the present was so gratifying that I never pushed him about it. His descriptions of his parents and childhood in Canada were so rich and detailed that I never thought to question him about those lost years. My dreams often involved his parents, even though I’d never met them. I could hear the cry of his mother’s violin and see her long hair and colorful scarves. Sam left many questions unanswered regarding the concentration camp and its effect on his parents and him. I had my suspicions, though. I just thought we were too connected for anything to stay hidden for long.
It was Sunday, and he’d left four hours ago for an early morning mountain bike ride. In the past, I encouraged his long morning rides with his friends. I knew it kept him happy and balanced. He needed time away from the family. Now, I resented the empty bed and the silence when I awoke. I missed him so badly, it hurt, and I found myself turning into a suspicious, jealous bitch. Where have you gone, Sam Rubinstein?
I thought even his appearance had changed. I rarely saw that easy smile that made me melt. His bearing was so rigid those days, he seemed taller than his six feet three inches. My mother would say he’d become the kind of person who could “carry his change up his butt.” His thick black hair was becoming a little grayer and longer, but I had to admit I found that a little sexy.
In the early eighties, when I first met him at UCLA, he was the mysterious heartthrob, who mesmerized all the girls with those intense gray eyes. He just appeared one day in a few of my PhD classes. I was still feeling sorry for myself after breaking up with Chad five months earlier, but I couldn’t help noticing him.
He had not gone to undergrad at UCLA and was not a familiar face. His good looks and natural charisma made his attempts to stay in the background almost ludicrous. When the school paper published his poetry, he became a minor celebrity and the graduate school heartthrob. Rumors had him turning down a major publisher because the poetry was too personal.
I was mildly interested in this mysterious new guy on campus but was too focused on my studies and breakup dance with Chad. Why is it that you always must try one last time? Is it that fear of loneliness or emptiness, or is it that need for self-flagellation? In any case, Chad and I were negotiating, and I had no room emotionally for anyone else.
Imagine my surprise when Sam began sitting next to me during class and walking with me on campus. I was the envy of all my friends. Although I found him funny, self-effacing, and irresistibly easy to talk to, my head and heart could not be turned...yet. We became great friends and confidants and shared our love of great literature, and even more importantly, of the outdoors.
Since I was a little girl growing up in the Valley, I have always hiked or cycled in the mountains. Most SoCal girls worshipped the ocean, but I lived for those hikes. My dad knew every plant, tree, and bird by name and made us stop to admire and study them. He taught my two sisters and me, literally, to stop and smell the roses and love the beauty and intricacy of nature. To this day, family reunions include a nature hike, wherever we are. Sam and I were lucky that we were both offered teaching positions in the English department at Southern Oregon University in Ashland Oregon after completing our PHDs. Ashland was a paradise for hiking, rafting and mountain biking. We could continue to enjoy nature and the outdoors, teach, and write. The university would allow Sam time to write his poetry and me, my novels. What could be better?
I took an active interest in botany and archaeology in high school and early college, but my love for literature, especially the classics I shared with my mother as a girl, won out. My youngest sister, Sara, took the same experiences and became a successful actress in New York. She was always the family ham. Family gatherings meant time for another of Sara’s skits. With her ‘cute as a button’ nose and upturned mouth, she made us all laugh at an early age. It surprised no one that she attended Yale’s drama department after high school. Keri, the oldest and smartest became an environmental lawyer. She had it all-beauty, brains, and personality. Even though she was the most serious of the three of us, she came up with the craziest pranks. I could always rely on her for a laugh and sage advice. She was and is a great big sister. It was no surprise when she won scholarships to Harvard and went to law school. I’m the classic middle child—balanced, mellow, and unremarkable. My husband, children, students, and family lift me above mediocrity. I have been lucky enough to stumble on a writing style that seems to please the public, but I certainly have less talent than many unsuccessful writers.
I heard Sam driving up the driveway. My heart raced. I hoped the old Sam would walk through the door. I wondered whether he’d told Bob, his best friend and cycling buddy, his secret? I hoped so. I sensed he was about to implode.
“Hi, honey. How was the ride?”
“Great, as usual,” Sam said, without really looking at me. “Bob was in rare form. He had a story for every mile. We road up to Four Corners, and I swear he didn’t take a breath. God, you know silence is not in his vocabulary. He says he’s having another of his salons. I’ll bet he’ll want you to play and me to recite. I’m not sure I’m up to it babe, but you can go, if you’d like.”
Before I could respond Sam was down the hallway and climbing the stairs. What was that all about? Sam loved Bob’s salons. They were the highlight of his month. An eclectic group of musicians playing every sort of instrument and music imaginable—what could be better? In addition, the views from Bob’s majestic house with its large bay windows in the sitting or concert room were especially inspiring. The house sat on a hillside and had spectacular views of the valley and the hills surrounding. Amateurs and professionals came as guests, often ignorant of what they would be playing, or with whom. Bob had a knack for putting together the right combination of musicians and suggesting the perfect arrangements to suit their talents. I remember when he had me playing “House of the Rising Sun” on harpsichord with Eric and Chaz, and then harp, while accompanying Stan Harrington and his mandolin on a few baroque pieces. Sam then gave several recitations of his poetry to the delight of the audience, while I played some Bach on my harp in the background.
Sam always seemed energized by these sessions, and he was my biggest fan and supporter. What could have changed? I know it’s not about me, but it’s hard not to take it personally. It’s time to talk. My dad used to say love tore down all walls and barriers. There was no purer form of communication than words filtered through love.
It was time to go upstairs and test his postulate. I slowly climbed the stairs. Our house had two stories with a bathroom off the master bedroom. There was another bathroom between the kids’ bedroom and a powder room next to the office downstairs.
When I reached our bedroom, I could hear Sam getting out of the shower. Maybe I could catch him naked and end this freeze-out. The fires used to burn so hot.
I couldn’t resist commenting. “Hey, great ass!”
He looked great in the buff. Still a knockout at fifty-two, I could never begrudge his time cycling or in the gym. He’s always had that tight butt and great posture. Small love handles were his one imperfection and saved me from a massive inferiority complex.
In the past, he would have used my comment as an excuse to throw me on the bed and make love to me with a capital “L.” Today, he just smiled shyly.
“All right, who are you, and what have you done with my husband, Sam?” I always believed in the direct approach.
Sam had already slid into his blue jeans and donned his flannel shirt—so much for lovemaking. “What the hell are you talking about?” He chuckled.
Now, I was really worried. He was too serious. What had happened to his wit and sense of humor? Sam was not Sam. He was either preoccupied, possessed by an alien, or this man was not Sam but an amazing facsimile. I felt like I was living one of my novels and I did not like it.
“Come on, Sam, you’ve been withdrawn and secretive for months. I’ve tried every female trick I know to get you to open up and connect with me. You’re somewhere else, and I’m afraid I’m losing you. Whatever it is can’t hurt me more than this stonewalling. At least be honest with me.”
Sam sat down on the bed, ran his hands through his hair, and looked down at the floor. After a few seconds, he looked up at me, pursed his lips, and just stared. I waited.
“I’m sorry, Beck, but I can’t, not just yet” he finally started. “It’s not you. I love you babe, but I’m wrestling with some ghosts, and they won’t let go. Shit, it’s almost as if I am possessed, and in a way, I am. Don’t ask me for an explanation. I’ll give it to you in due time. This damned journey is a solo one, and it’s consuming me. I’m sorry for the pain it’s causing you and the kids, but I need to complete it, or I will lose part of myself. That’s all I can tell you, other than…I’ve decided to take a canoe trip in Algonquin Park, north of Toronto, this summer. I’m hoping I find some pieces missing in my puzzle.”
I couldn’t speak, I was so angry and frustrated. Twenty years of marriage and friendship, and he couldn’t share his secrets with me? It hurt. We never made plans without consulting the family. Was he going to wait until the last minute to tell me about this trip? Even worse, I thought I knew him almost as well as I knew myself. Sure, there was always a gap in his history, but I figured…I don’t know what I figured. I was confused and hurt. I love this guy and trust him, but should I? What could I possibly say? I didn’t want to lose him, and it’s clear that nothing I say would change his plans.
He slowly stood, walked over to me, and took me into his arms. I melted, despite myself. I so wanted him.
He kissed me deeply and took away my breath. Yes, I felt it—the love was still there. I needed this reassurance and warmth.
“Don’t worry, babe. Nothing could come between us. I’ll be back. Bet on it. Please be patient. I’ve scheduled a canoe trip with two old buddies at the beginning of August. I hope to have this whole f---ing mess figured out by the end of the trip. Then I’ll tell you everything. I’m also taking a leave of absence from SOU for a few months in the fall and won’t be teaching any summer classes. It will give me the time I need. Believe me, I feel your anger and hurt and don’t blame you. Please be patient but do what you have to do.”
My heart dropped. I didn’t know how to react, but I had to respond.
“What does that mean? I’m trying to be patient and understanding, but what am I to think? Do what I have to do? In what context—find a gigolo?” I sighed and took a step back. “Oh shit, I’m lashing out at you. I’m hurt and angry, and maybe I should wait a few hours or days before talking to you. It’s April and you just returned from your bike ride and dropped this bomb on me. How are we going to survive the next few months?”
I really didn’t know what to do or how to react. In some ways this was better than some of the situations I had imagined. He clearly still loved me, and it wasn’t personal. I hoped I was strong enough to hang on.
Sam embraced me and kissed me with a passion I hadn’t felt in months. It recharged my battery. I would last. He could go on this quest without me, and I—we—would be fine. The foundation we had built the last twenty years was too strong.
***
Keri waved from her seat outside Le Café in Studio City as I walked down Ventura Boulevard. The café had a typical French style with small indoor tables and cute metal chairs. It had those same round glass tables outside on the sidewalk facing the busy boulevard. The café was famous for its espresso and French pastries. They were to die for. The people watching was an added bonus. It was July third, the weekend of our yearly family retreat, and Sam had stayed behind in Ashland with the kids. Three months had passed since he dropped that bomb on me. My two sisters, Sara and Keri, and I were going to have our traditional pre-retreat brunch at Le Café. Last year, Sara broke the news that she was gay at the brunch, and the year before Keri admitted she was living separately from her husband, Phil. I guess this year it was my turn but what could I say? My husband still loves me, but he is on a personal quest to find missing pieces in his puzzle, so we have stopped making love and confiding in each other, but that’s okay because, in August, he is going on a canoe trip in Canada to find the final pieces? I was sure my sisters would think it was just another plot in one of my novels. After all, I was the stable middle sister, and my life was supposed to be predictable and rock solid. Well, maybe they’d have some insights.
“Becky, your hair!” Keri stood as I approached. Her jaw dropped. She was truly surprised. We hugged before I sat.
That’s right! My sisters hadn’t seen me in a year. My hair was just starting to grow out but was still just an inch long. I was surprised Keri recognized me.
“It’s the new me. Like it?” I said with bravado, moving my head side to side.
“I think it’s great, but it’s quite a shock after forty-some years sis.” My sister was a skilled lawyer, and I hadn’t a clue what she really thought. My hair was my trademark, and I remained slightly disoriented or weakened by its loss. However, I was too preoccupied with Sam to dwell on it.
“It’s growing on me,” I punned with a giggle.
“Very funny. Come sit. Sara should be here within an hour. Pfff, you know Sara. She’s still on Sara Standard Time.” Keri shook her head and smiled.
Keri pulled out the metal chair next to her and beckoned me to sit. She still was the most beautiful of the three of us. Her reddish-brown hair was shoulder length, thick and wavy. She had those green eyes to die for, high cheekbones, and pouty lips. Her body remained trim and athletic, and she had those extraordinary perky boobs. I had been jealous of them since I was fourteen, and now that the kids have sucked all the air out of mine, it was worse.
Keri never had kids. I thought it was her career, but it turned out it was Phil and a dysfunctional marriage, although I suspected her career did have some impact on the decision. She had always been intense and driven, and I was sure she was a superb lawyer, but may have been difficult at home. To me, she had been nothing but supportive and insightful, everything a big sister should be. We shared the same sense of humor, sensibilities, and love of the outdoors as the rest of the family. She provided the ground beneath my feet, and Sara provided the sky and air. It was a good balance for a middle sister.
“You look fantastic as usual. What’s going on? You have that glow—who’s the guy?”
As I took my seat, Keri bowed her head and blushed. I had hit a bull’s eye but before she could answer, we were interrupted by a cute young waiter. He was tall, slim, had black hair in a bun and wore a white apron. He had that aspiring actor look. He offered menus but we knew what we wanted. No one could resist their caramel lattes and pain au chocolat. After he left, I nodded at Keri, waiting for her to respond. She gave me a sheepish smile and replied.
“Phil and I are seeing each other again.”
“What? Six months ago, you told me you were filing for divorce. What happened?”
Phil had been Keri’s college boyfriend, and I had always thought they were well suited to each other, until a sudden rift five years ago. Phil’s career as a screenwriter had stalled, and Keri had become one of the foremost environmental lawyers in LA. Phil didn’t seem like the jealous type, but maybe it was an ego thing.
Their chemistry seemed to change at around that time. Sam and I used to love to travel and visit with them. They were warm, funny, adventurous, and above all, comfortable. We all genuinely liked each other. Phil was a great raconteur and had a wonderful sense of humor. He had a sensibility and gentleness I’d seen in few men. His screenplays reflected those qualities and easily engaged audiences…until recently. I wondered if Phil had suffered from some personal tragedy. Keri had not hinted at anything of the kind, so maybe his writing simply reflected his failing relationship. It was painful to watch them bicker and hurt each other. I was frankly happy that they separated two years ago. Divorce was a foregone conclusion until now.
“The papers were filed, but we bumped into each other at Anson Laytner’s Christmas party, and something unexpected happened. I saw him with a date and became irrationally jealous. It took me by surprise. You know that’s not my style. I’m not the emotional type.” She shook her head with a slight smile. “It wasn’t the first time I’d seen him with another woman, but certainly the first time I was jealous. Something had changed for both of us. You’ve been telling me for years I had to get in touch with my emotions. The next day I called him and took him out to brunch. I found him warm, funny, and comfortable—the old Phil. We talked for hours and shared our experiences and discoveries of the last two years. I realized that we had both changed, or more accurately, had changed back into the old Keri and Phil. Phil had been searching for that perfect script and was never satisfied with himself or his writing. I had been searching for acceptance and success in the legal world as a woman and didn’t feel appreciated or satisfied.” She shrugged. “Somehow, we had expected each other to fill the void created by our own feelings of inadequacy. It never happened, and we resented each other. During the two years apart, we both found contentment within ourselves. We realized that we didn’t need anyone to fill the void but wanted each other as friends and lovers. Pretty heavy, don’t you think?”
Keri had a contagious smile and I found myself smiling in return. Still, I felt a pang somewhere deep inside. Would Sam find the missing piece in his puzzle?
“I must admit you seem happy. God knows I love Phil, but you guys were so miserable for so long. Are you sure getting back together is the right thing to do?” I gave Keri my most earnest look. Had the last few months knocked all romance out of me, and was I now just a cynical bitch?
Keri nodded. “I’m sure. We have been living together off and on for the last six months. I have been working on the trial from hell, and Phil had his last script rejected by all the major studios—both recipes for conflict and misery in the past. Instead of taking it out on each other, we discussed our feelings and dealt with our frustration independently. We took another cycling trip to San Juan islands last month. We avoided our running debate about the nature of the trip and just enjoyed the views, rides, and each other. Remember our last trip with you and Sam?”
Of course, I did. Sam and I had vowed never to take another vacation with them.
“God, how could I forget? First, you argued about the number of miles we’d ride each day, then it was the duration of our breaks, then it was the number of meals a day—”
“We weren’t that bad, were we?” Keri blushed.
“When you tried to draw us into your argument about matching butts to bike seats, we knew it was going to be a long trip. In the past that argument would have been an invitation for our usual joke fest, but you both treated my joke about Sam’s skinny butt like schoolgirl silliness.” I was on a roll now. “That was the year you were on a fitness kick, and Phil was writing the book about the Zen of cycling. How wonderfully compatible, I thought. I couldn’t have been more wrong. You wanted to maximize your aerobic output and minimize your calories, while Phil was trying to savor each color, each moment, and each meal. You had a basic philosophical incompatibility that transcended your obsession with fitness and Phil’s book. Keri, frankly, you were so obsessive and egocentric, I found myself siding with Phil, but you were my sister.” I was sorry to take such a firm stance with her, but I felt like it was important to warn her. I laid my hand on hers on the tabletop. “During the last few years of your marriage, you developed a hard edge that was hard to take. I’m sorry I didn’t discuss it with you, but I thought it was just a product of a failing relationship. You always had that drive to be the best, but I always found you approachable until then.”
Keri looked down at my hand on hers but didn’t remove it. She finally looked up at me. “You’re right sis. I’m afraid if you’d approached me, I would have just given you a blank, somewhat hostile, stare. I thought I was focused, but selfish, egocentric, and obsessed are words that come to mind now. Beck, you have always been my secret hero.”
I glanced up at her sharply. That was new. I didn’t know how to respond but thankfully, the waiter appeared with our lattes and pastries. It gave us a chance to pause. After a few sips of her latte, Keri continued.
“I love your balance and earthiness and the fact you still can be spectacularly successful at everything—your career, your marriage, motherhood. I never felt I could do more than one thing well at a time, and that may be why my marriage failed. Phil wanted kids from day one, but I had one excuse after another—”
“Wait,” I called her to a halt. “Phil wanted kids? I thought maybe he was why you never did.”
Keri shook her head sadly. “I was afraid I would fail at motherhood, and it would have a domino effect on the rest of my life. Failure has been my biggest fear, and anything less than the best was failure. You remember our tennis matches as teenagers. Pfff, it bugged me that you could win so effortlessly and had so much talent, yet it never seemed to matter to you whether you won or lost. It was all fun. Winning was all that mattered to me. I admit it frustrated me that you wouldn’t even debate questionable points. You always let me have them. I think your healthy attitude just accentuated my own neuroses and obsessions.” She laughed softly. I squeezed her hand and tried to protest but she stopped me and continued.
“We have always been such different personalities but managed to remain close until the last few years. Frankly, I don’t know how you tolerated me. I had lost sight of what was important and become obsessed with being the best. Two years ago, when I won all those accolades for winning the ‘trial of the century’ in environmental law, I felt empty instead of elated. Phil was long gone, and I felt I had distanced you and the rest of the family. God, when my picture appeared on the cover of the Times, I wanted to hide.”
I was surprised by this confession and had to respond.
“I had no idea. What about all the great press and compliments?”
Keri shood her head. “All the compliments seemed insincere and meaningless. I realized my value system had become warped. Something needed to change, so I cut my hours at work, took yoga classes, and volunteered to mentor several high school kids. I even started seeing a shrink. Beck, I never realized how unhappy I was until then. I’ve got a long way to go, but I actually have fun playing tennis now, even if I lose. Can you believe I never played tennis with Phil until this year because he didn’t meet my screwed-up standards? Yet, when you were winning all those tournaments at UCLA, you still played with the rest of the family, even though you knew we could never really compete at your level. Sam’s a lucky guy, and you’re a lucky girl. You guys have the marriage from heaven. Don’t ever let it go.”
Keri didn’t know she had just stepped on a landmine, and I didn’t know my emotions were so close to the surface. Just as Sara walked up to the table, I started bawling.
In the middle of a cheery greeting, Sara stopped midsentence and put her hand to her mouth.
I felt out of control—sobs, hiccups, snot, trembling and all. My sisters had never seen me in such a state.
Keri, at first, sat with her mouth wide open in a state of shock, but eventually embraced me and started crying too.
When Sara started sobbing, and I noticed a crowd gathering around our table on the sidewalk, the spell broke. I started laughing in between my sobs, and soon we were all laughing hysterically, like the old days. My sisters and I used to take turns making each other laugh, because once we started, we inevitably all became hysterical with laughter. The stupidest joke could get us going. Sight gags were the best.
The crowd scene around our table was enough butSara’s red beret hanging comically over her right ear, and Keri’s mascara running ghoulishly over her cheeks, made me just about explode. Sara had a bobby pin holding her beret precariously over her ear, and when she moved her head, it swung like a pendulum. Her cherry red lipstick was slightly smudged, and her spiked, heavily moussed hair was pointing every which direction. She was perfect for a screwball comedy.
Once we composed and rearranged ourselves, and the concerned crowd had dispersed, probably wondering about the crazy emotional ladies, Sara put her arms around both of us and asked with a giggle, “So, girls, what have I missed?”
She looked from me to Keri, who directed her back to me.
I knew there was no holding back now and confessed the pain and frustration of the last six months. I told them of Sam’s total emotional and physical withdrawal, the lack of touch or any form of intimacy. I shared with them Sam’s admission of a secret past and his plan to retrieve or explore it during a canoe trip in Canada.
“So, is this like the movie Deliverance? Does he have some backwoods relatives who played banjo and violated him in some obscene manner? Is that his secret?”
Sara had a warped sense of humor and injected it into every conversation.
“Shh—behave yourself!” Keri snapped. “Not now!”
Keri was at her oldest sister best. Sara gave her a mock hurt look and then laughed and encouraged me to continue.
“There’s not much more to say. Sam gave me some hope the night he told me about his plans, but he’s been a different person. I hardly recognize him. The change shakes the foundation of my love and trust. I always realized there was a part of Sam I never knew but always dismissed it as trivial. I was a fool.”
“Come on, Beck, get real.” Sara said. “We all knew how secretive he was about his family. I mean I thought your wedding was quaint, with only ten people, but we all thought it strange that he invited no family and only two friends from the UCLA years. I know you said he had no family but let’s get real. Does that seem possible? What about the death of his parents? It was so Hollywood. Why was it such a taboo subject? They died in a car crash, what were the circumstances? It sounded like a great film noir. Why haven’t you guys ever traveled to Toronto? He grew up and he went to undergrad there. Sam is a great guy with a mysterious, dark past and some clear issues with his family. Yeah, distant relatives perished in the Holocaust, but let’s get real; he did have a life and family in Toronto.” Sara always got right to the core. It was hard to take her seriously with her smeared lipstick and beret hanging precariously by her ear.
Keri then took over the conversation but first could not resist adjusting Sara’s beret. “Yeah, do you remember that trip to Italy the year after Jenny was born? That sure was fun, wasn’t it? I don’t think I ever told you about the conversation Phil and I had with Sam while you were on your day trip to Sicily. That was the year one of the characters in your latest novel was Sicilian. That morning, you were the only one without diarrhea, so you decided to go on a field trip yourself. Sam, Phil, and I just laid around the villa, as close to a toilet as we could. God knows, we were all probably delirious from dehydration and too much wine and our tongues were pretty loose. We told story after story and kept each other laughing in between toilet runs. Phil and I told some funny stories about the year we spent traveling around Europe and Asia right after college—the best year of our lives. Sam seemed to be enjoying our stories and even had some of his own. We all know he’s a great storyteller, but he had never mentioned touring Europe in the late seventies before, and there was something strange about the people in his stories.”
I frowned. “How so?” I’d never heard this story either, and it hurt a bit to know that Sam had shared something with Keri and Phil that he hadn’t shared with me. Yet another secret.
“They weren’t backpackers or college kids; I could never put my finger on what was unusual about them. His itinerary was also different than what you would expect of the Sam we know today. It was exclusively big cities. Even stranger, he was staying in five-star hotels. Where did he get that kind of money at that age? We asked him about his parents, but you know how he is about that subject. He mumbled something about not wanting to talk about them and left the room. Pfff, I didn’t know what to make of it.”
That was pretty normal for Sam. In all the years we’d been together, he’d never talked about his parents.
Keri sipped her latte, and then continued with a suspiciously lawyer-like look in her eyes. Like she was collecting evidence. “There’s something strange about his parents’ death and his relationship with them. You might want to look up the Toronto newspapers during the days just after their death. Now that I think about it, there’s always been something almost sinister about the way he avoids his past. Sure, he’ll talk about his childhood and friends of that era, but we’ve always thought it weird that he had no stories about his college undergrad years in Toronto or even late high school. Wasn’t he in college in Toronto in the late seventies, maybe early eighties? By my calculation, she arrived as a grad student at UCLA around 1981. Where are all his Toronto college friends? He’s a pretty charismatic guy not to have had any. Do you really believe he had no family? I’ve always wondered why you never asked. Pfff, Sam’s a great guy. We all love him, and it’s easy to overlook the gaps in his history and his secrecy about his family, but God knows with his recent behavior…”
I knew Keri was right, but I resented her negative view of Sam. Despite his secrecy and recent withdrawal, I had never thought of Sam as “sinister.” I kept sipping my cold latte and peering intensely over my cup at Keri as she spoke. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Sara nodding in agreement. Finally, I knew I had to reply. “I know, I know, but I just have to trust him. I have too much invested in our life and love. I know this guy, even without the missing pieces. After twenty years, I can’t be wrong, so let me play this one out. Just be there for me as you always are.”
As I finished my little speech, a guy in a white cowboy hat, black boots, and an embroidered red shirt pulled up a chair at our table and put his arms around Sara and Keri.
“Hi y’all!” he drawled with a broad grin.
Initially, I thought he was another Boulevard crazy and was ready to call the manager, but my sisters didn’t flinch. In fact, they smiled back in recognition.
When Sara saw my puzzled look, she laughed and explained. “Beck, this is my new friend, Rick Larue.”
Now I was really confused. Friend? Had Sara switched back to hetero? Was she breaking her rule about not dating actors or actresses? Surely Rick must be “B” movie Rick Larue, the actor who was singlehandedly resurrecting the movie western. I really did not think Sara would be attracted to the cowboy types. Maybe I was jumping to conclusions, but he gave her an awfully familiar kiss.
“I hope y’all don’t mind me crashing this family party. Rebecca, here, has been my favorite writer since college.”
At my surprised look, he continued.
“When Sara told me you’d be at the café this morning, I couldn’t resist.” He shrugged and looked at Sara. “From the look of things, though, I picked the wrong time to crash. Maybe, I’ll just shake Rebecca’s hand, tell her how her much I admire her writing, and mosey on.”
Rick’s drawl and smile were strangely magnetic. I was sure my appearance, as well as my sisters’, must have been both humorous and intimidating, but I wanted, no needed, him to stay.
“I’m flattered, Rick, and frankly, I need all the strokes I can get right now. If you’re a friend of my sister’s, then you must be good folk. Pull up a seat.” I found myself talking in his rhythm and drawl.
“Well, thank you, ma’am. I’m honored,” he answered, pulling up a chair.
Out of the corner of my eye, I caught Sara angrily glaring at him.
“Cut the cowboy bullshit, Rick. We’re not groupies. Keri and I know you were born in New Jersey and have a PhD in English from Yale. Now, Becky does too. Talk like a Yaley, Yaley.”
Sara did not mince words. Rick put up his hands, his palms directed toward Sara, as if he were warding off blows. Then he started laughing and put his arm around her.
“You’ve got to love this lady. No bullshit allowed. Sorry, Rebecca, I’ve been in Hollywood too long, and sometimes it’s hard to transition from one character to another. I’ve been selling Rick Larue to the public so long; I sometimes lose Rick Lazarus. No one in the business wants to talk to Lazarus, but everyone wants Larue, so I accommodate and, in the process, lose a piece of myself. Your sister is the exception and has raised Lazarus from the dead, so to speak. I keep forgetting that she met me at Yale when I was still Rick Lazarus.” Rick grinned and we all groaned.
“See what I mean? Lazarus gets no respect,” Rick continued. “If I had said the same line as Rick Larue”—he reverted to his drawl— “Ma’am, Miss Sara is the only one who gives Lazarus respect. Just like in the Good Book, she raises him from the dead. See, just as corny but you would have been disarmed by the innocent cowboy charm. Acting, just like writing, manipulates emotions and allows people to project qualities they want into one-dimensional characters. Rick Larue’s other dimensions vary, based on who is watching his performance. A sardonic perspective of the public, but I fear it is close to the truth. The faculty at Yale shared my point of view. They gave my PhD thesis top marks. In any case, I did not come here to talk about either Rick but to meet Rebecca and see the sisters together. You have a remarkable family. Again, if I arrived at an awkward moment, I would not be offended if you told me to leave. Otherwise, I’d love to order a cup of coffee and talk about writing, literature, and life as a Hoffsinger girl.”
Suddenly, I had an uneasy déjà vu feeling. Like I’d seen Rick before, and not in the movies. Rick was a stocky blonde with bushy eyebrows. He looked nothing like Sam and yet…
***
It was the second month of my PhD program in English literature, and I was hiking up Sullivan Canyon in the Santa Monica Mountains—one of my absolute favorite hikes. Trees and bushes shaded the trail, and their leaves provided a soft cover for its floor. I just loved to feel the autumn leaves crunch under my feet.
During the miles of slow incline, I composed some of my best writing, and that day was no different, but I found myself daydreaming about Sam Rubinstein, the guy from my PhD classes. We were just getting acquainted, and my heart was finally opening, after months of mourning over Chad. The final climb out of the canyon always stole my breath, but the beautiful panorama at the top restored my serenity.
I was just catching my breath, when a cyclist sped toward me from the direction of the Valley. He wore a purple helmet with a dark visor shielding his eyes. As he approached, the fluid movement and speed of his long, muscular legs impressed me. He was quickly gaining on a group of riders who had left a cloud of dust on the trail to my left. Graceful and powerful all at once, he fueled my imagination, and his mysterious dark visor just added intrigue. I couldn’t say it was a sex thing, as much as an art thing, but he had my attention.
Then, much to my surprise, he stopped a few yards past me. He seemed to hesitate, as if contemplating his next move before turning and walking his bike toward me.
“Hi, Rebecca!” It was a vaguely familiar voice, but it was only after he took off his helmet that I realized that it was Sam. My legs went weak! I had continued to daydream about him as I stood gazing over the mountains. Suddenly, there he was, and sexier than ever!
I didn’t believe in fate, but at that moment I could have been convinced.
Locking my knees and slowing my heart, I turned and coolly waved as he walked his bike toward me. It must have been the altitude that made me dizzy.
“There’s a lot of poetry in these mountains,” I said with my tongue partially lodged in my cheek. My heart was available for the first time in months, and Sam walked right in.
“I know, and the images are more beautiful every day.” He answered innocently enough, but somehow, I knew to blush.
I had no time to consider my reaction because a loud scream echoed from the distance. We both ran to the edge of the path and strained to see two riders looking toward a cloud of dust rising from the ledge in front of them. Without a word, Sam turned and raced down the path while I ran as fast as my hiking boots would take me.
When I arrived, Sam’s bike was at the side of the path, but there was no sign of Sam. The two cyclists were still looking over the ledge, engaged in an animated discussion in German, and I could swear they were talking about Sam in familiar, almost worshipful tones. Sam Ruby or Rubinstein, or some other name like Sam’s, peppered their conversation.
“Hi! What happened?” I asked.
“Gustav, he ride too fast around the turn and disappear over the edge. I think he is hurt badly. That guy, Sam—your friend, no? —he slide down to help.”
The man who answered, couldn’t have been more than in his late teens He was a tall, thin, dirty blonde, with rosy cheeks and a heavy accent. His friend was equally tall but had long dark hair and an adolescent beard. German or Swiss, I thought, as I walked over to the edge.
Sam was bent over a contorted figure. I winced. The injured rider’s head sat at a strange angle against a rock, and the body was twisted unnaturally. Sam was feeling his arms and legs without moving anything.
After a moment, he looked up at me, and I instantly understood. Gustav had a broken neck, and his friends needed to get to a phone and call 911. A Jeep could navigate the paths, but a helicopter would be better.
Sam and I have made that silent connection millions of times since, but that first time was uncanny. Sure, anyone could have guessed that Gustav’s neck was broken and that we needed help, but I swear I heard Sam talking to me. I wouldn’t have believed it myself.
I gave the instructions to the boys, and again I had the impression they knew Sam and had complete confidence in him. In fact, they smiled and mumbled something about being surprised at seeing him in the Santa Monica Mountains. Sam later denied their acquaintance, but my intuition told me otherwise. They may not have been friends, but they knew him one way or another.
Come to think of it, that was the first time I felt Sam had secrets. As the helicopter evacuated Gustav out of the mountains, his two friends chattered to Sam in German. I suppose I should have been surprised that Sam spoke German and curious why these boys seemed to look at him with such awe. It was too late—my heart was his, and my brain was not far behind. Although it would be several months before we started seeing each other regularly, I was falling hard.
We met an hour later for breakfast at Il Fornaio—a bakery/café in Brentwood where cyclists and runners gathered on Saturday morning. It had mountains of baked goods cased behind glass and a full espresso bar. The seating was limited inside and there were a few tables outside. It was a common gathering place for weekend runners and cyclists despite its limited capacity. That day was no different. Several cyclists asked us about Gustav. News traveled fast. We picked out some muffins and scones, poured our coffee, and then sat at a table on the sidewalk on Montana Avenue. Sam seemed uncomfortable as some cyclists were gesturing in his direction, and he soon asked if I minded if we took our food and took a walk. I guess I didn’t think it strange at the time. Besides, he was so charming and quick to regain his cool.
As we stood and he paid the check, he suggested we discuss “writing, literature, and life as a Hoffsinger girl.”