The Magic Number
Dave scanned
the message that appeared on his cell phone.
Hi, I’m Julia Barnett, a friend of Megan’s,
and she asked me to invite you to a party in her honor. It will be at my home
this Friday, 7 p.m. No gifts. Can you come? The Fort Worth address
followed.
Puzzled, he
clicked the sound off to avoid interrupting his business conference again. He’d
answer it later. Funny. He thought his sister and brother-in-law had already
left on their anniversary cruise in Europe.
After the construction
contract had been agreed upon and hands shaken, both parties went to an
exceptionally fine restaurant to celebrate. It wasn’t until later, in his hotel
room, that he read the message again.
Absolutely sure
Megan’s cell phone would be turned off as an economy measure, he called her anyway
and got a taped answer. Well, maybe the party was after she and Sam returned,
but he thought that was next week.
When this
business trip came up, Dave had tried to make plans to see them, but it
wouldn’t work out. He didn’t come back to Fort Worth often, though it still
felt like home. Maybe with this new business plaza contract, he’d be here
enough to make contact with his old high school buddies.
With that warm,
fuzzy thought he zapped back a quick text:
Thanks for the invitation. See you
Friday. Then he tossed his cell on the tapestry bedspread and headed for a steaming
shower.
Three days
passed in a flurry of activity. He only thought of the party invitation at
night, when he collapsed on Hilton’s deeply tufted mattress. Every daylight
hour passed in controlled confusion of puzzling over the architectural schemes
to give the builder exactly what he wanted.
On Friday, he
asked the client’s secretary to have flowers sent to the hostess’ home in his
name, and he made sure to break away early enough to arrive on time. But Megan
still didn’t answer her home phone or her cell. Maybe they were sleeping off
the intercontinental flight.
Arriving at the
Westover Hills address, he found a tasteful home. Large, but not a mansion like
some of its neighbors. He touched the bell and an attractive woman in her sixties
opened the door wide. The smile on her face froze. He didn’t recognize her, and
she obviously didn’t know him.
She extended
her hand. “Good evening. I’m Julia Barnett.”
“Dave Copeland,
Megan’s brother.”
“Oh.” He could
see wheels turning in her head. She stepped away and turned to the guests
chatting in the living room, allowing him to enter. “Megan? Your brother, Dave
Copeland?”
A colorfully-dressed
woman broke from her conversation with a smile still on her lips, but curiosity
on her brow. “I don’t have a ... Excuse me. Who?”
She and a burly
gentleman with a scowl approached Dave. They did not offer their hands.
This wasn’t
Megan. Not his sister Megan, anyway.
The man
broadened his chest and took a square stance. “What is your business here?”
Thoroughly
confounded, Dave searched for words. “I was invited to Megan’s ... ” He reached
for his phone, and the man slipped a hand under his own left arm as if to a gun
holster there.
“Just my phone.
Sorry. I’ll show you the text.” Slowly and avoiding jerky motions, he extracted
his cell phone. The fellow’s shoulder relaxed, and he repositioned whatever he
had almost drawn out. Dave was sure
it was a gun.
Displaying the
invitation text message, Dave showed it first to him and Megan and then to the
hostess. A crowd gathered, and his phone was passed to several people.
“Oh. You sent
the flowers?” Julia indicated an arrangement on the coffee table. “I wondered
who ...” Her face flushed three shades of red.
“Didn’t they
have my name on the card? It was supposed to be signed.”
“Well, yes, but
we didn’t know who Dave Copeland was. That is the message I sent, but—”
“Dave?”
He looked
toward the breathy voice.
“Dave, is that
you?”
Definitely not
his sister. Trisha March, his girlfriend from Arlington Heights High School, stepped
from the circle of guests. Younger than the other guests, as he was, and the
most beautiful woman in the room. Her hair, still silky, light brown, came
below her ears but not loosely to her shoulders as when he had last seen her.
The night her
father poked him in the chest and told him never to come to their home again.
“Dave Copeland.
It’s so good to see you again. What brings you here?”
He took his
cell phone from a man and handed it to her. He couldn’t speak anyway.
“I think there’s
been a miraculous mistake,” she responded after reading the text. A smile of
wonder lifted her eyes. “This is the retirement party for Megan Warner, my boss.”
She indicated the Megan whose brother he was definitely not. “You got this
message and thought it was for your sister, Megan?”
“Right. I tried
to call her several times, but she and Sam had gone on a cruise for their
twenty-fifth anniversary. I thought— Look, folks, I’m sorry. I’ll just make a
U-turn. Y’all get back to your party.” Feeling his face burn, he reached for
his phone. “’Scuze me, Trisha. Sorry about this.”
“Oh, you can’t
leave. I haven’t seen you for some twenty-six years. Please stay.”
The hostess
broke out of her trance. “Indeed. You must stay for dinner. The caterer is
about to serve the most magnificent dinner, and I have a place for you.” She
took him by the arm and the room breathed again. She led him to the bar,
followed by Trisha. “What can I get you?”
Every sort of
liquor and wine stood at attention waiting for his order. “Coke?”
The other
Megan’s escort filled a glass with ice and poured his drink. “Hi, I’m Bill
Warner, Megan’s husband. And Fort Worth Police. Sorry about that.” He nodded
toward the place where they’d stood before.
Trisha came to Dave’s
other side. “Bill, would you pour me a Diet Coke, please? I need to get
reacquainted with my old boyfriend.”
She placed her
hand on the sleeve of his sport coat, and it warmed him down to his tingling
feet. The next moment his fledgling hopes crashed to the ground. That hand bore
wedding rings.
She accepted
her Coke and took a sip. “Have you moved back to Fort Worth? You haven’t come
to any of the class reunions.”
“I have an
apartment in Cincinnati, but I fly around a lot since my wife passed.”
Trisha’s
expression clouded, and she murmured the sort of thing people say.
“Our sons are in college, so I’m free to leave
when I need to,” he continued. By peripheral vision, he noticed the hostess, Julia,
switching place cards at the dining table with a dozen seatings. He still felt
the polite thing to do would be to leave.
But Trisha
looked up at him and her eyes were still as green as ever. He couldn’t leave
yet.
“How many sons
do you have?”
He chuckled.
“Two. They’re twins, and they were always a houseful. How about you?”
“One of each.
They’re still in high school.” She backed away from the bar, drawing him out of
the traffic. “And yes, they’re a houseful. Especially dealing with their father’s
sudden death.”
“I’m sorry. But
I see you’re still wearing rings.”
“Well, I still
have the children. And it was only a couple of years ago. I wasn’t ready to
appear available yet.”
Julia Barnett
invited them to the dining room, and she had indeed put his place card next to
Trisha’s. As much as he wanted to corner her with a thousand questions about
her life since high school, they both engaged in conversation with the other
guests. Everyone was too polite to ask how or why he came to the party. Or
perhaps they thought he was Trisha’s date. He hoped that could be arranged in
the future.
*
* *
Trisha again
relived the night her father sent Dave away, shouting that he was never to call
or see her again. His father was a drunkard who didn’t provide well for his
wife and children. Rumors of violence traveled through school, too. Dad said
everyone knew drinking problems passed through the genes or rearing or
something. He didn’t want her stuck with a loser.
Since Dave
declined the fine wine at the dinner, she did, too. Was he an alcoholic on the
wagon? How could she ask without sounding like it was the most important
question of the century, which it was to her?
Eventually the
caterer’s waiter came around with the wines again, and showed off the label to
Dave.
“No, thank you.
But I’ll have some more water when it’s convenient,” he said.
She took the
chance and asked. “You’re not accepting the wine?”
“Never touch
the stuff. I saw what it did to my father and the effect on the family. I never
had any interest in trying alcohol. But please go ahead and enjoy it. Don’t
refrain on my behalf.”
“It isn’t
important. Never has been to me. I’m okay with the Diet Coke.”
Inwardly, she
sighed her relief. She’d never known him to lie about anything, ever. She could
hardly believe her good fortune in finding Dave again. She watched his
interaction with the others and admired his well-developed social graces. The
lean, gangly teenager had become a man. A gentleman. And an architect with a
master’s degree. Would he find her interesting after so many years and total
separation? She hadn’t exactly been “rode hard and put up wet.” The extra time
put on her hair and the slimming royal blue dress she wore tonight gave her
confidence.
“So you work
for this company, and this is a retirement celebration?” Dave interrupted her
musings. “What do you do?”
“Human
resources, with a specialty in data management. But I do a lot of
person-to-person consulting as well. Megan has been my boss as long as I’ve
been with the company. We all regret losing her, but she deserves a good
retirement.”
They swapped a
few facts, like how he had remained in the Methodist church and reared his sons
under that umbrella. She was still in the same one where they’d attended youth
group together.
Rather than become
grounded and calmed as light conversation continued, she developed an inner
quiver. The boy of her girlish dreams had become a handsome, polished
professional. Parts of her she’d thought died with her husband stirred and
stretched as if from a long sleep.
After the
dinner of cordon bleu came a rich chocolate confection. Then coffee and
liqueurs were served in the living room. Dave and Trisha sat together on the
sofa. Soon the guests began to thank Julia, cover Megan with good wishes, and
slip into the night. Trisha didn’t want the party to end.
You can’t let him go. He can’t just leave
again. Please, God, make him ask for my number, my e-mail, anything.
Only Megan and
her husband, Julia and Doug Barnett, Trisha and Dave remained in the living
room. “I should go.” She tried not to look and sound as reluctant as she felt.
“Oh, but first
I have to explain.” Julia came to where they were sitting, bringing her cell
phone and a list of names and scribbled notes. “Here’s the message I sent from
my phone, the invitation I sent you, Dave. I made a mistake in one number when
I intended to send it to Alice. You didn’t meet her. She’s recovering from
surgery and couldn’t come. But you see the number on my list?” She held it out
for him to inspect. “There’s only one number different. You still have the 817
area code?”
“I got this
phone in Fort Worth, and have kept the same number ever since. I never had a
reason to change. Since you mentioned Megan in the message, I assumed the party
was for my sister and her husband’s anniversary. I should have checked.”
Trisha looked
up, noting that he hadn’t lost the dimple she loved so much. “I’m glad you
didn’t. We wouldn’t have met if it hadn’t been for this marvelous mistake.”
“I don’t know,
Trisha.” His eyes connected with hers for a long moment. “I have a feeling God
would have worked it out somehow.”
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