Suzanne
His heart twisted. He was recovered enough to feel bad. That was better than feeling nothing, he supposed. Oliver mailed the check to his bank and considered what to do. He was far enough from Maine and had been gone long enough so that he was beginning to realize that he didn't live there any more. He rented a motel room and decided to eat in a real Mexican restaurant, if he could find one. He asked around and was told to drive out East Speedway and look on the left. Fairly far out along a strip of gas stations, discount stores, and used car lots, he spotted a substantial wooden building with a restaurant sign.
He parked and walked inside to another sense of time and space. The dining room was cool and dark, purposefully shaded from the sun by old timbers and thick walls. It was quiet. It might have been 1800 or 1600. The awareness of time stretched further back than anything he had felt in New England.
He ordered carne secca, beef flavored with intense dry spices that he hadn't before tasted. He drank tequila and wine. A stern guitar embraced the silence. At the end of the meal, Oliver had a final tequila. To his astonishment, he began to cry. Tears ran down his cheeks while he sat still, occasionally sipping his drink. When the tears stopped, he dried his face with a cloth napkin and shook his head. Much of the numbness was gone. He hurt.
For the first time since he had left Maine, Oliver wanted comfort. "Francesca," he said. He wasn't all that far from the West Coast. He could probably get to Seattle in four or five days. He had been heading there all the time but hadn't known it. He collected himself and drove back to the motel. He was in pain, but he had a plan—get to Francesca.
Three long days of driving later, he pulled into the parking lot of the hotel in Eugene where he had stayed when he had met his father. Seattle was only six hours away. The next morning, he bought a bright red shirt and a bottle of Laphroiag.
As he drove north on I5, he thought about Francesca and what to say to her. He forgot it all as soon as he found a parking place, late in the afternoon, several blocks from her address in Ballard. The city was attractive, bustling, built on hills overlooking Puget Sound. It had been hot in Tucson. Here, it was cool again, although Seattle was milder than Maine.
He locked the Jeep and walked nervously along a sidewalk. He crossed a street and passed several houses surrounded by large hedges. Children called. He stopped. Francesca was standing at the edge of an elevated lawn in front of the next house. Her back was to him. A tall man stood next to her, his arm around her shoulders. Beyond them, Maria and Elena were kicking a soccer ball. They looked older and bigger. Francesca and the guy were comfortable together, familiar. Oliver was shocked, although he shouldn't have been. Francesca was a beautiful woman.
He turned slowly and walked away, trying to get out of sight and catch his breath at the same time. He felt as though he'd been kicked in the stomach. Francesca! He'd been counting on her in the back of his mind and deep in his heart. He turned the Jeep around and drove toward the water until he reached a street that was lined with art galleries and bars. He saw a parking spot and stopped.
Oliver got out of the Jeep and walked into the nearest bar. Two pints of local ale later, he was able to stretch his legs and try to face the situation. There wasn't much to it, really. He had driven five thousand miles to get away from Maine, and he'd discovered a happy Francesca. That, at least, was good. But he was in trouble. He kept drinking.