that how she died?”
“Yeah,” Greg studied his glass. “Three in the morning, too much to drink, driving too fast, she ran through a red light and hit another car. Turned out the other guy was drunk, too.
Megumi cleared the empty glasses and started washing them. The wind boomed outside, rattling the sheet metal roof. Greg and Tal stared at the tabletop, neither talking for some minutes.
“She died at the intersection of 12th and Melrose,” Greg said finally. “Just a block from where we rented that office when we first started out in business, remember?”
“Yeah.”
Megumi was standing patiently near the door.
“We need to go,” Tal said.
They walked through the storm to Tal and Carol’s house. Tal got Greg situated on a futon in the studio, then crawled under the covers with Carol in the bedroom and told her about Greg.
In the night, the wind clattering the sheet metal roof woke him from a dream of Susan. Her black Mercedes lay wrecked in the foggy Santa Monica night, but she climbed out unhurt. She was twenty years old again, wearing jeans and a blue sweater he remembered, her brown hair in a ponytail. She looked his way, smiled a soft smile at him then walked away into the night. Tal lay in the darkness, remembering.
The dawn light was silver on the mountain tops when he woke. Carol brought tea to the studio where Greg was admiring one of her paintings. They ate rice and natto and miso soup and watched the play of light and shadow on the foothills and mountains.
“Greg tells me you were a millionaire for a while last year,” Carol said lightly, not sure how to navigate the waters of the past.
Tal touched her hand, warm from her teacup. “That was some other person. I’m a backcountry carpenter.”
Visibly relieved, she changed the subject. “Lately I’ve been trying to integrate the colors and textures of the old wood I find into my paintings.” She nodded toward a pile of weathered boards on her worktable. “The wood in these old buildings is amazing, the color and grain and texture, sometimes almost silvery, sculpted like sand on a beach.”
They lapsed into silence. After a while, Greg said he wanted to get going. Tal and Greg stepped outside into a windy, brisk morning. The clear air was intoxicating.
“There’s something else I need to tell you…” Greg said. “That last year before I closed the company, I was...”
“Unhappy?”
“Unsatisfied. I had money in the bank. I was paying myself six hundred thousand per year and spending every bit of it, and still felt like I needed more.” He shook his head.
Tal smiled, chuckled, then laughed out loud. “These days Carol and I live on something like thirty thousand yen a month—three hundred dollars.”
Greg grinned. “But happy, right?”
Tal shrugged, “Not always. This work is hard, especially Carol’s. But, as the Buddhists say, hewing wood and drawing water are marvelous activities for clearing the mind. That grinding dissatisfaction I used to feel is gone. I wish I could have shown Susan the way. Too late now.”
Carol came outside beaming. “There’s a gallery up in Aomori that’s sold another of my pieces—I love it!” She laughed out loud and took both their arms. “It’s funny,” she said. “I’d continue painting even if nothing ever sold, that’s what I want to do with my life, but when people buy your work—the affirmation is marvelous.”
She smiled at Tal. “I’ll be forever grateful that when the opportunity to change came our way, we took it.”
Greg shrugged into his backpack. In the strong light, the old wood of the door frame behind him was weathered into ripples like sand on the beach, the color of his silver hair and beard.
“This road goes up through that pass there.” Tal pointed. “Then it follows the river past some really beautiful lakes. About five kilometers from here you’ll start dropping down through the foothills on the other side.”
They shook hands in the bright sunlight. Carol gave Greg a hug and disappeared inside.
“You’ve still got about two hundred thousand in a trust at our old bank back in Santa Monica if you ever need it,” Greg said slowly. His tone changed, and he went on quickly. “Susan and I were seeing each other even before you disappeared. I wished it hadn’t happened. But it did. We stayed together after you disappeared, after the windfall profit, after the company folded, even though neither one of us was really very happy with each other. We were just thrown together by the stress and success of those days. After you left...” Greg stared at the distant mountains. “After you were gone, well, there was nothing left but the money. Susan was driving back to her place from my house the night she got killed. Speeding headlong, drunk, searching for something…” Greg slipped on his sunglasses. “I wish…well…”
“A different lifetime, Greg.” Tal said. “Nobody’s to blame.”
“A few months after she died, I closed my legal practice and hit the road.” Greg took his sunglasses off again. “Most people think I’ve got things backwards. They think you need to know your destination before you start the journey.”
Tal smiled. “Most people.”
They shook hands.
“Have you found what you’re looking for?” Tal asked.
“I’ve found a way to find it.”
“So have I,” Tal said.
“Well, so long. And thanks.”
“See you again?”
Greg slipped on his sunglasses, “Not likely. But then again, who knows?”
He set off down the road toward the mountains, leaving Tal standing there, watching him go.
Happy Endings
Late in the summer of 1926, Ernest Hemingway stopped for a few days at a hotel on the border of Spain and France. He was on his way back to Paris after the ‘Dangerous Summer’ in Spain and needed a few days alone to finish his first book. But as he worked to bring Jake and Brett’s story to a close, his mind strayed to the turning point he faced in his own life. He confided his choice to two strangers who were facing turning points of their own.
Everett woke up with a start. A girl had said his name, he thought. But there were only the two Basque cleaning women in blue and white uniforms, sweeping the stone steps that led down to the esplanade. The hotel veranda and its row of blue and white striped deck chairs, the blue sky overhead, the sweep of dark blue Atlantic under a cloudless sky was clear and beautiful. Green breakers heavy with sand rolled in with a regular thump and hiss. He had never seen the ocean before this morning.
But he’d been dreaming of the farm, the way the morning sun lay on the hayfield, the cool shade of walnut and oak, the silent flow of the Little Osage River.
Two weeks ago he’d told his brother he had to leave, go see the world, get away from the farm. And so he’d crossed the Atlantic bound for Paris. But he’d gotten on the wrong train in the station at Le Havre, and now here he was at San Sebastian.
He sauntered down to the yellow sand and turned left.
A big guy with a scowl on his face and a rolled towel under his arm was coming up the concrete steps as Everett sauntered down to the beach. Everett nodded pleasantly, but the big guy ignored him.
There was a girl sitting on the yellow sand, a sketchpad on her lap. Her face was hidden behind a sunbonnet tied with a blue ribbon. Everett slowed. Out of the corner of his eye he could see she was sketching the brown Pyrenees in the sun, the sweep of the blue Atlantic, the fringe of surf and sand, and the trees behind the white stucco buildings. A wisp of reddish hair had broken free. Everett sensed she was an American.