She turned away, to the window and the outside world. The sea across her eyes shimmered and shrank away and she angrily wiped away the sudden tears. She looked back at Charles. He looked alone, alone and tired. She wanted for all the world to feel this way, now. Even in the midst of overwhelming sorrow, she knew that time had slowed for her to engage enough of what was left of his ever-receding heart.
?Did I ever tell you about my first love?? she asked him. He looked up, then, shook his head.
?I thought I was your first,? he said, and smiled sadly. He had a quiet wryness about him that she appreciated. It was the strongest indication that he was still with her, even if for a short time.
?It would have been you, if he hadn?t shown up first one Christmas in a red-wrapped gift,? she said. He looked pleased, and she felt like making him smile, so she took up the narrative.
?I was four, my father then a businessman beginning to accrue fortune. My wish that year had been for a pony. I loved ponies?yes, it?s trite, I know. Not every little girl gets one, but that?s another story for another rainy day.
?I begged my father for a month before my birthday, and then again on his birthday,? Lindsay laughed. ?How impertinent of me, and yet I didn?t really know better either.? She closed her fists quietly, remembering her past, and the bitter-sweetness of telling Charles on this, their first exposure to public light.
?He seemed irritated and told me I should be better off without a pony. ?Maybe next year? he would tell me, but it was no use. He wouldn?t convince me to stop and I wouldn?t convince him he needed to buy me a pony. That was the way it was between us.
?Later, after school had begun and winter had set in I drifted out of interest for the pony. I forgot about it until about a month before Christmas. I began to get excited again, and the prospect of what St. Nicholas would bring to me was hardly bearable. I reminded my father again that Christmas was the time of miracles, that Santa would be kind. My father always shrugged at me, the way Stuart sometimes does. I remember him sitting at coffee, sorting through the dispositions and property papers, turning ?round to me after I had told him about the pony Santa would bring me, happily for the fortieth time that week, and saying, ?Christmas won?t be the same after you stop asking about that pony.?
?Well, Christmas morning finally came around, and of course, I was absolutely convinced that I would find a pony downstairs waiting for me. At the very least, she would be outside, with a Christmas bell hung around her neck and a half-nibbled carrot on the snowy path. Imagine it! I, a little girl with half-draped curls and nightgown flowing like some samurai cape, running to meet my horse (I had already named her Blueberry). Discovering that among the gifts strewn about the tree, no pony to call my own! That, Charles, is the first moment of the first crisis of faith.
?My father saw my disappointment, but he saved his special gift for last. It was a large, square box, tied loosely with a ribbon, and I could see little holes in the top and side. Before I could pull the ribbon, the box bounded off and I was attacked by a tiny scrap of fur! My first animal, a tiny spaniel, and oh, I can remember how I simply melted away. I named him Dashes, after his funny running stops.?
Lindsay stopped, remembering, wondering if she would forget this someday. She had gotten lost in her memories, and Charles was respectfully silent.
?I can?t remember what my father looked like when I opened that box. I only remember him afterward, telling me I would show good responsibility and care for that dog. I wonder if he was smiling at me??
Charles shifted and his movement caused the car to settle. It was warm in there, she felt; the sun had heated the plush seat next to her hand and she wanted to stay there, peaceful and warm in that man-made cave of steel and wheels.
?Charles, what are you going to do?? she asked him, and he looked past her shoulder, to the side of the town. ?I mean, with Stuart part of this now, how will you manage??
Charles nodded. ?I knew this would happen. Sooner or later, he was bound to know at some point. I just wish?? he stopped and looked to her eyes. ?I just wish the sting was something less than it is. But that?s a fool?s errand there, looking for treasure in the dark places of the earth. Stuart will be all right. Don?t worry about me, either. I have a plan.?
?What is it? It?s no use going at it alone, if you mean to stand up to him. I want to be there with you,? Lindsay replied.
?No, you don?t understand. I will be leaving, as you are.?
?Back to Chicago!?
?No, to Paris. Or Rouen. Somewhere else. Just not the States.? Charles pursed his lips. ?I have something to find.?
Lindsay didn?t say anything. Her hopes had been raised then dashed as quickly, and somehow, she knew this was their last time together, the last confrontation, and come what may, they were destined to be distanced by oceans and lands and the boundless gaps of the unknown.