Sometime Soon Read online

  Sometime Soon

  by

  Debra Doxer

  Sometime Soon

  Copyright © 2013 by Debra Doxer

  All Rights Reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the author.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Cover Design by Cover Lure

  www.CoverLure.com

  Edited by Janet Michelson

  www.jm-editing.com

  As always, this book is dedicated to my family. Thank you for your love and support.

  Table of Contents

  prologue

  one

  two

  three

  four

  five

  six

  seven

  eight

  nine

  ten

  eleven

  twelve

  thirteen

  fourteen

  fifteen

  sixteen

  seventeen

  eighteen

  nineteen

  twenty

  twenty-one

  twenty-two

  twenty-three

  twenty-four

  twenty-five

  twenty-six

  twenty-seven

  prologue

  In the darkness a flashlight clicked on beneath the heavy winter quilt of thirteen-year-old Andrea Whitman. She just couldn’t fall sleep until she finished her reading assignment. The assignment wasn’t due for another week, but she had to know how To Kill A Mockingbird ended. She thought Atticus Finch was the most interesting character she’d ever come across in a story. She would never admit this to anyone, but maybe she had a little bit of a crush on him--even though his hair was turning grey and he wore glasses. Her friends were all in love with Mr. Darcy and Mr. Rochester. But she thought they were both so unlikeable at the beginning of their stories that they couldn’t redeem themselves to her in the end. Her friend Bethany even thought Heathcliff was sexy. But in her opinion, Heathcliff was the worst of all.

  From the very first, Atticus was brave, honest, and forthright. He was just the way she thought a good man should be. She admired that he always did the right thing, even if it wasn’t the easy thing. That was what her parents had taught her and her sister Laura to do. But she was only thirteen, so she hadn’t really had a chance to put that into practice yet.

  As Andrea continued to read, she thought of her own father and of the boys she went to school with. Perhaps her father had the qualities she admired in Atticus. He was honest, and she knew that he loved her. But the boys in school were another story. They teased her--a lot. They made fun of her dark curly hair and the fact that she always did her homework. She saw them lying to the teachers and making up stories so they wouldn’t get into trouble when they were caught doing something they shouldn’t. They were loud and disrespectful to their elders. No, none of the boys she knew were anything like Atticus. She decided that when she grew up, she was going to find a man who possessed the admirable qualities of Atticus Finch. She would settle for nothing less.

  one

  “I compost,” he tells me, even though it’s a total non-sequitur. We’d been talking about work. “I give it away for fertilizer,” he continues as his bushy, dark eyebrows move up and down with each change in his expression.

  This is our third date. It’s a warm summer afternoon, and we’re eating ice cream cones on a park bench about a block away from Derek’s apartment. Derek and I worked together before he left to take a job elsewhere. All the women at my office used to lust after Derek but he never seemed to notice. When we ran into each other about a month ago and he asked me out, I could hardly believe it. But then we went out on a date, and I realized very quickly that we have nothing in common. I’m not sure why I’m even here today. That’s not true. I know why I’m here. He’s hot and he asked.

  “Do you recycle?” He waits for my reply as he pops the last bite of ice cream cone into his mouth.

  “Sure. I mean, I have to. My trash collection service requires it.”

  He nods at me. “But you would anyway, right?” His eyes are intent on mine.

  “Yeah.” I shrug before finishing off my own ice cream. This isn’t the first time his views on the environment and recycling have come up. By now, I understand very clearly how strongly he feels about these issues.

  “Come on,” he says. “I’ll show you.” He stands and slips his sunglasses over his eyes.

  I’m just coming to terms with the fact that I don’t care to see his compost, or him, anymore. But I need to get through this Sunday afternoon date. Just making an excuse and leaving would be too rude.

  We quickly cover the block to his apartment. Derek’s long legs eat up the sidewalk, and I have to practically speed walk to keep up with him. He doesn’t seem to notice. In fact, he reaches down and folds my hand in his.

  He lives in one of many brick brownstones that line the street. I follow him up the short stairway to the main entrance. I’ve never been here before, and I can feel that he has expectations of me today. I really hope this doesn’t get awkward.

  After climbing three sets of stairs inside the sweltering building, which obviously has no air-conditioning, Derek pulls out his keys and opens the door to his place. He gestures for me to precede him inside. As I step past him, I notice that despite the bright sun out today, his apartment is dark and draped in shadows. I can only make out a small kitchenette to the left of the doorway.

  I feel Derek move behind me just before a light clicks on. The walls of the apartment take shape, and I can see a small living room with a loveseat and a wide-screen TV. Clutter in the form of books, discarded dishware, and rumpled clothing covers every available surface. A line is strung up across the length of the room, and what appear to be wet clothes are hanging from it.

  I turn around and watch as Derek steps inside and goes into the kitchen area. “I use this composting bin in here,” he tells me, pointing to a squat rectangular container sitting on the countertop.

  I nod before turning back to look at the wet laundry in the living room. “Do you always dry your clothes this way?” I ask.

  “Always. Do you know how much energy dryers use?”

  “I never thought about it.”

  “You should,” he tells me. Then he takes the lid off the composting container and the odor of rotting garbage assaults my nose. “I put all my food scraps in here,” he explains.

  I make a face and take a step back.

  He laughs and replaces the lid. “What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger,” he jokes as he waves the smell away from his nose.

  I smile politely in response just as I hear a buzzing sound near my ear. I jerk back and swat away a black fly that’s circling my head. I quickly realize that it’s not just one fly, it’s several. “Derek, you’ve got bugs in here,” I say as I bat at another one

  “I know. It’s a hazard of composting. That’s what these strips of paper are for. They’re sticky flypaper for catching the bugs. This is much safer than using insecticides of any kind.”

  I glance around again, and this time I notice the long narrow strips of off-white paper hanging down from the kitchen cabinets and the doorframes throughout the apartment. They are all completely covered with bug carcasses. My nose wrinkles in disgust.

  “Um, Derek,” I begin, knowing I’ve got to get out of here and not caring what kind of excuse I use.

  “Hmm,” he answers softy. Su
ddenly he is directly in front of me. Before I can register his intent, he bends down and puts his lips on mine.

  I sputter in surprise and quickly break our connection.

  His eyes pop open and he appears confused by my reaction.

  I shake my head at him. “I’m sorry. I can’t”

  “Why not?”

  I know I have an incredulous expression on my face and I don’t want to be rude, but I can’t stop the words that come pouring out. “Derek, your apartment reeks of garbage, and it’s infested with insects. You’ve got one of the ten plagues of Egypt happening in here. This is not exactly putting me in the mood,” I inform him.

  His eyebrows slam downward; his mouth a straight, tight line. There is no mistaking the fact that he is completely insulted and offended.

  “I’m just going to go,” I say quietly, taking a step back toward the door.

  “That’s a probably good idea,” he replies, crossing his arms over his chest and watching me with eyes that have turned hard and cold.

  I turn on my heels and pull the door open. After I step out, I close the door behind me to ensure that no insects can escape with me. Then I take the stairs down two at a time. Once I burst outside, I gulp in the fresh air. As I head down the street in the direction of my car, I’m processing what happened back there, and I’m not quite sure how to feel about it yet. At least now I don’t need to have the “I’m sorry but I’m not interested” conversation with him. I think that came across quite clearly. A serious set of giggles are beginning to bubble up inside me, despite the familiar disappointment that’s already settling in.

  My last long-term relationship was nearly five years ago. I’ve had several mini-relationships since then, but no one special. Nearly all my friends, and my sister, are married or getting married. I’m thirty. I should be worrying about finding someone at this point, and I do. But a part of me refuses to dwell on the looming threat of being perpetually single. Besides, there’s plenty of time to find the one, if he even exists. That’s what I keep telling myself. Now I just have to believe it.

  I’m early, as usual. The bar is crowded, but there are plenty of empty tables. The after-work crowd is mainly interested in alcohol. I can relate.

  The newest hot spot, Café Blue, is a long narrow rectangular space with soaring ceilings cut by a row of swirling fans. The drinkers are packed together on one side of the room, and a small group of diners is chewing together on the other side. Of course, the whole place is painted in shades of blue. I’m here to meet my good friend Katie for dinner. She has been dying to try Café Blue, and she made me promise not to go without her. What she doesn’t know is that I have already been here. I came two weeks ago with Bryn, so I now know that the food is overpriced and the service is subpar. Bryn and I had tentative evening plans a couple of weeks ago, but in the afternoon she left me a message asking me to meet her “at that new place Café Blue at 8”, and then she never answered her phone again. I was stuck. I actually met Bryn through Katie, but they’ve since had a falling out and are mutually ignoring each other. I haven’t mentioned that I’m no longer a Café Blue virgin to Katie.

  As long as I’m here early, and in an effort to make the best of it, I casually walk up to the bar and discreetly angle my way in. From my last visit, I can recall several nice-looking, suit-wearing, likely employed men hovering around. From what I can see, they are back tonight.

  Having just come from the office, I’m wearing a pair of navy Bermuda shorts topped with a frilly white peasant shirt. I have on a pair of uncomfortable, but flattering, strappy sandals. This outfit is a step up from my usual Converse sneakers and T-shirts. I work in marketing at a computer software company in Cambridge, just across the river from Boston. The high-tech world has a very casual dress code.

  I reach a hand up, checking that my dark curly hair is still neatly contained in a clip. I’m fairly presentable, I think, for having just walked a block to get here on a muggy August night. As I’m attempting to make eye contact with the burly, nose-pierced bartender, I feel someone move in beside me on the right. A deep voice with a smooth cadence says, “I’ll get his attention for you.”

  I look over and find myself eye-level with a grey button-down shirt rolled up at the sleeves over tan forearms, topped by a striped tie loosened at the neck. Glancing upward, I meet a pair of smiling brown eyes shielded by trendy frameless glasses, and thick sun-streaked hair that’s combed to the side and in perfect order. He doesn’t have to worry about his locks springing out in all directions when the humid summer air sneaks up on him. “Thanks.” I smile at him, astounded by how quickly this has come about.

  “What are you having?” he asks.

  “Just a Chardonnay,” I answer, eyeing the exotic drinks being consumed around me. Hard alcohol does not agree with me, despite my many attempts to convince it otherwise.

  Within moments he has flagged down the bartender and is moving a chilled glass of wine toward me. I reach out and place some bills on the bar, shaking my head at him, but still smiling when he tries to pay. This is something of a problem. I don’t like other people paying for me. It becomes especially difficult in dating situations. Not that this is a dating situation. But in this case, a nice-looking stranger trying to buy me a drink could take my refusal as a rejection, even though I’ve tempered it with a friendly smile.

  This whole category of etiquette confuses me. It seems as though who should pay on a date is an elusive concept to both sexes. I’m an independent gal making a good living, but I’m under the impression that the gentleman always pays if he does the asking. I’m not necessarily comfortable with this, but I can conform to society’s dictates. Once a relationship forms, expenses can even out a bit more. At least, this was my thinking until various men I’ve dated complained about the “gold-diggers” with whom they had previously gone out. When I heard “gold-digger”, I thought of classless women trying to squeeze jewelry, cars, and other expensive items out of boyfriends or husbands as payback for intimate favors. Of course, this impression was mostly formed by watching too much television. But to my amazement, these men seemed to be referring to women who simply didn’t “go for their wallets” when the bill came after dinner or at the movies or elsewhere. During this unsolicited post-mortem on past dating experiences, there was always the following “not that I would have let her pay, but she could have at least given me the wallet-reach!” which, of course, I then gave at the end of dinner. And that’s how I’ve handled the issue so far. I do the wallet-reach when the bill comes. Although, I’ve been told more than once what my half of the bill was.

  But the grin I offer tonight must be working, because Mr. Frameless Glasses doesn’t wander off after I insist on paying for my own drink.

  “I’m Jason,” he says, offering his hand and stepping away from the noisy crowd. Very smooth, I think. I have to move with him if I don’t want to leave him hanging on the handshake. “Andrea,” I reply, putting my hand in his. He has a good handshake, firm and quick but not too fast on the pull-away. His hand is dry and warm. Unfortunately, mine is cold and wet from just having handed my wine glass off to my other hand.

  Jason holds a tumbler with ice and some clear liquid soaking at the bottom. “Just coming from work?” he inquires.

  “Yes. You?”

  “Survived another day in the trenches,” he answers solemnly.

  “I’ve had bad days before, but my survival is generally a given,” I reply.

  He peers down at me through his floating lenses. “You don’t let them get to you then? Good for you.”

  “I try to stay above the fray,” I agree.

  “A very good policy. You can’t be either a school teacher or a prison guard then.”

  I laugh. “Thankfully, no.” I take a sip of my wine when my cell phone startles me, buzzing in the front pocket of my shorts. I promptly start to choke.

  I’d transferred the phone from my purse into my pocket in case Katie called to tell me she was running late, which
she usually was. When my phone is buried in my luggage-sized purse, I can never get to it in time. I hold a hand up to my mouth and try to cough and sputter as attractively as possible.

  “Are you okay? Do you need me to pat you on the back?” he jokes, moving closer.

  As my phone continues to buzz, I give a just one second hand signal to Jason and yank it out of my pocket. “I have it on vibrate. It startled me.” I manage to choke this out, feeling ridiculous as I glance at the caller ID. It’s my sister. I debate not answering it, but she’s relentless. If I don’t answer this call, several more will follow on its heels until I finally do pick up.

  “I’m sorry, I have to take this,” I apologize.

  He offers me a good-natured shrug and takes a step back to give me some privacy.

  “I just had a big fight with Mom.” I hear before I even finish saying hello.

  “About what?” Although, I know what it has to be about.

  “The flowers. She wants me to take time off from work next week to go check out the florist. She knows I can’t take any time off right now. But she insists it has to get done next week or else the flowers won’t be ready in time, and we have ten-thousand other things to do once the florist is taken care of. I told her I simply don’t have time right now. She should just go by herself.”

  “I assume that didn’t go over well,” I manage to say when Laura finally takes a breath.

  “No, it didn’t. I don’t see what the big deal is. Why can’t she just pick out the flowers herself? She doesn’t listen to me anyway.”

  “Because it’s your wedding.” I look over to see if Jason is still there. He is, watching the baseball game on the screen above the bar. With this new side view, I notice his strong jaw line. “Laura, can I call you back later?”

  “Why? What are you doing? I hear noise in the background.”

  “I’m meeting a friend for dinner.”

  “Who?”

  “Katie.”