Pain flared in her eyes when he spoke and he thought, I should have
waited. She doesn't believe it because we're in bed. But she
kissed him and said, "Don't love me."
"I'm trouble. Nothing but trouble." But she held him tight,
as though she were afraid he would be the one to vanish.
"I love trouble." He kissed her again.
"Why? Why would you love me?"
"What's not to love?" He kissed her forehead. "You have
a great brain." He kissed between her eyes. "You see the
beauty in everything." He kissed her mouth and grinned. "You
always know the right thing to say. . .unlike me."
She kissed him back and they made love again and when they were done
she said, "Three months. You can't really know me."
"I'll never know you. We never know another person as much as we
like to pretend."
She smiled, snuggled up close to him, pressed her face to his chest,
put her mouth close to his beating heart. "I love you, too."
"Look at me and say it."
"I'll say it here to your heart," she said. A tear trickled
from her cheek to his chest.
"Nothing. Nothing. I'm happy," Carrie said. She kissed him
and said, "Go to sleep, baby."
And he did and now, in the hard light of day, she was gone, the
whispers and the promises gone with her. And this distant note. But
maybe this was for the best. She was nervous. And the last
complication he needed was explaining a mysterious family disaster.
He tried Carrie's cell phone. Left her a voice mail. "Babe, I've
got a family emergency, I've got to go to Austin. Call me when you get
this." He thought, I shouldn't say it again, it scared her off
but he said, "I love you and I'll talk to you soon."
Evan tried his father's cell phone. No answer. Not even voicemail
picking up. But his dad's phone might not connect in Australia. He put
the plane crash scenario out of his mind. He followed his clockwork
morning regimen: fired up his computer, checked his to-do list,
checked his news feed: no disasters reported in Australia. Perhaps
this was a disaster on a smaller scale. Cancer. Divorce. The thought
dried his throat.
He clicked on his email, shot off a message to his dad saying, Call
me ASAP, then downloaded his emails. His in-box held an invitation
to speak at a film conference in Atlanta; e-mails from two other
documentary filmmakers who were friends of his; a pile of music files
and a couple of her latest digital photos, all sent by his mother late
last night. He synced the music to his digital player; he'd listen to
the songs in the car. Mom thrived on obscure bands and tunes, and
she'd found three great songs for his earlier movies. He checked to be
sure he had all the footage he still needed to edit for his nearly
completed documentary on the professional poker circuit. Made sure
that he had the raw notes for a talk he was supposed to give at for a
speech at University of Houston next week. He slid his laptop, his
digital music player, and his digital camcorder into his backpack.
Evan packed a bag with a weekend's worth of clothes his mother hated
for him to wear: old bowling shirts, worn khakis, tennis shoes a year
past their prime.
A Man Called Intrepid author dies aged 89(Dec 03 2013) William Stevenson, a journalist and author who drew on his close ties with intelligence sources to write two best-selling books in the 1970s, A Man Called...