She stared out the window of the cafe, lost in thought, her specialty coffee steaming on the table in front of her, ignored. Streaks of gray in her hair, swept back into a clip of some sort, gave her an elegant appearance. They looked deliberate, as if placed there by a talented hair stylist, or a mischievous sun who said I’ll not paint with a blond brush today, but use silver instead. Yet her face was slender, unlined, artfully made up. She shook her head slightly, tore her attention from the swirling snow outside, and swept the room with her gaze. The green scarf at her neck and matching earrings brought out the emerald color of her eyes in a startling way, and my heart rate picked up when she met my stare and held it for a long moment before turning away.
I rose from my table and covered the distance between us with light steps, as if afraid of scaring her away. She pulled a pad and pen from the slender briefcase leaning against the table leg, and laid them beside her cup. Tucking a stray lock behind one ear, she opened the pad and waited, pen poised over the paper. As I pulled the chair from the other side of the table and lowered myself to its seat, she looked at my face.
“It’s you,” she said, surprised but not that surprised. “I should have known.”
“How could you?” I reached for her other hand, but she pulled it back just slightly, so I leaned back, keeping my hands to myself.
“I don’t know. The letters, I guess. If I’d been thinking, I’d have recognized their style.” She sighed. “So you are the one behind all the controversy. The letters. The phone calls. The all-out campaign to scare people and create panic.”
“Your disapproval only means you don’t have all the facts,” I replied easily.
“Well, I still want the interview,” she remarked. “So maybe you can give me the facts. See if you can change my mind. It’s hard to be objective now that I know it’s you.”
“You can be objective.” I fought the urge to caress her face, our history a warm melting sensation inside me. Memories.
“I promised to protect your identity. I’ll keep that promise, although had I known it was you, I’d never have made that vow in the first place.”
“I know.”
She gave no sign of being flustered in my company, unlike me in hers, yet her fingers trembled slightly as she prepared to write. “So why are you doing it?”
“Someone has to.” I rubbed my eyes, fighting the weariness that came from too little sleep, days of hiding, and nights of running. From being hunted. “They know it’s me, even though they pretend otherwise. I am one of a handful who has the information. I’m sure they’ve tracked down the others by now and eliminated them.”
“Such talk,” she murmured. “You’ve frightened people with your dire warnings and outlandish predictions.”
“People should be frightened.”
It stood between us like a great impenetrable wall. Our past. “Before we continue, I just want you to know I didn’t abandon you. I had no choice.”
“Forget it,” she said, her mouth in a tight line. “It was a long time ago. I’m over it.”
“I’m not,” I said softly. “I was whisked away. A program so secret I couldn’t even say goodbye. Not to anyone.”
“Let’s just focus on the present, okay?” She began making notes, scribbles really, as she waited for me to shove the feelings back where they belonged and get on with my explanations.
I shrugged. The reunion I had hoped for was not going to happen. “Okay. Let’s get down to it then.”
I told her what I knew, how I knew it, and who was involved, all the way to the top. Her pen flew over the sheets and she kept turning pages, filling one after another. An incisive question here and there. A look of disbelief. A gasp. When we had finished, the lunch crowd was making its appearance, tromping in and stomping snow from their feet, settling into booths and tables around us. The cafe filled with the hum of many voices.
She closed her notebook and returned it to her briefcase along with the pen. Reaching for her drink, she realized it had long since grown cold. She pushed it aside and looked directly into my eyes. Her expression softened a bit, held a look of sadness. “You’re a dead man, aren’t you?” she asked in a quiet voice.
“I’m a dead man.” I nodded in agreement. “It’s just a matter of time. I can only run and hide for so long.”
She gathered her purse and briefcase and stood, her long skirt falling gracefully over her legs. I stood as well. As she lifted her coat from the back of her chair, she paused, thinking. “If only…”
“Yes,” I said, wanting to hold her one last time. Hope cradled me in its fragile hands, lifted me for a long moment. “What might have been…”
She leaned toward me almost imperceptibly, but then shook her head and offered me her hand instead. “Goodbye, Tim. Be careful.”
I pressed her soft fingertips gently before breaking the contact. The touch had filled me with yearning, a yearning which had no place to go. “I will. As careful as I can.”
She turned away quickly, pulling her coat on while juggling her things. I watched her walk out the door, and out of my life. For the second, and last, time.