Shadows At The Window

I’m a jeans and boots and sweater sort of person. For my big date with Greg, I decided to wear a brand-new pair of jeans with my nicest black boots. Instead of my usual sweater, I chose a long-sleeved, black cashmere top with glittery bits scattered across the front. My mother had given it to me for Christmas. It was beautiful, but I seldom wore it—it was too sparkly for church, and I would never wear something so New Year’s Eve-y to school or work. But it seemed just about perfect for tonight. And it would look quite nice set off with a glinting diamond ring on my left hand.

Bridget wasn’t home and wouldn’t be until later, so she didn’t get to listen to the CD with me. I was impressed with what Neil had done. He’d made my three songs sound beautiful—and professional—with the perfect arrangement of strings, cello and percussion.

It was cool and windy as I drove through the Boston traffic to Greg’s apartment. The CD was wrapped up with a big red bow and tucked in my bag. As soon as Greg asked me to marry him—as I was sure he would—as soon as he brought out the ring—as I was sure he would—I would put up my hand as if to say “wait,” whereupon I would reach into my bag, grab the CD and while I said a huge “yes,” I would lay it down in front of him. It would be one of those romantic and touching moments, and I planned to try very hard to record it in my head, so when I got home, I could write it all down.

And if perchance he didn’t ask me, I would ask him.

It didn’t work out that way.

As I drove to Greg’s house, it occurred to me again that maybe I should tell him my entire story—Moira, the money I took and the murder. Maybe I should be completely honest with the man I intended to spend the rest of my life with. Or maybe not. Maybe I’d tell him after we married. But that didn’t seem right either.

I saw Greg before he saw me. He was standing in front of his house leaning against a lamppost, hands stuffed into his pockets. He wore khakis, a blue windbreaker and a pensive look on his face, something I could see even from this distance. He seemed nervous as he stood there, eyes darting this way and that. He hadn’t seen me yet.

I slowed in front of him, and he gave me an uncertain smile. I’d seen that smile before, when he was unsure about something or had heard a joke that he didn’t think was funny. I stopped the car and he slid into the passenger seat, bringing the cold in with him.

“Hi,” he said.

I greeted him with a wide smile and pulled away from the curb. “Hey,” he said. His voice was quiet, gentle. I looked briefly at his amazing blue eyes, at the crinkles around them. He saw me looking at him and quickly moved his gaze away from me. Why wouldn’t he look at me?

“Greg?” I said.

“Yeah?” he answered, looking out the window.

“You want to know where we’re going?” I grinned mischievously at him.

Silence. A moment passed.

He shrugged. “If you want to tell me.”

“So, you want it to be a surprise, then?” I asked.

“Whatever you want.”

“How come you’re not being more cooperative?” I said, trying to tease him. I glanced over and he still wasn’t smiling.

“Cooperative about what?”

“You’re just not your usual self.” And he wasn’t. He was usually so chatty that I never had to carry the conversation.

I thought he said, “Maybe I’m a bit confused,” but I couldn’t be sure, he spoke so quietly.

“What?”

“I said, ‘Maybe I’m a bit tired.’”

I nodded. More silence. Maybe the renovation of his office was getting to him. And having to reorganize everything. That would do it to anyone, wouldn’t it? That’s what it was. And as soon as that was all over with, things would all be right again.

And we’d be engaged.

We were in Primo’s parking lot before I knew it, and I pulled into a space right in front.

“Oh, wow,” I said, forcing myself to be cheerful. “Look, a perfect parking spot. That must be a good omen.”

“Primo’s,” he said. “We were going to come here last week.”

“Yep, Primo’s,” I said with as much enthusiasm as I could muster. “We’re a week late, but I don’t think they’ll mind!”

Greg said nothing as he got out of the car.

We didn’t hold hands when we walked together into the restaurant. Things were not going as planned, and I didn’t quite know why.

The staff at Primo’s was awaiting our arrival. The owner’s daughter Lucia, who worked as a waitress, greeted us. In a floor-length dress of lavender satin, with her dark hair piled on top of her head in an array of big brown curls, I wondered if she was on her way to the prom. I was about to ask her when I realized that all the waiters, waitresses and kitchen staff were formally clad. The guys wore tuxes and the girls were in gowns. And they were grinning at us.

I couldn’t help myself. I grabbed his arm and said, “Greg! Is this what you planned for last week?”

He stood for several seconds and ran his hand over his face. He looked like he would rather be anywhere but at Primo’s. I tried again, “This is so nice, Greg! You are so romantic! I had no idea.”

Lucia led us to the table in the corner by the window. It was not our regular Primo’s table with gouges in the wood and a flimsy metal napkin dispenser. It had been covered with a dazzling white tablecloth and a tall white candle sat in the center. I kept watching Greg’s face. Why wasn’t he smiling?

He took off his jacket and placed it on the back of his chair. Underneath, he wore a crisp blue shirt which made his eyes even bluer than usual. Someone had moved a couple of floor plants close to the table, giving us more privacy. Lucia sat us down and, with great flourish, unfolded cloth napkins, placing them in our laps.