Valerie’s words crashed into Drew like a moving train. A feeling of hopelessness followed, as if he were entertaining a ridiculous fantasy that would never be possible or real. What was he thinking? She was Scarlett Fontaine, movie star, goddess, Oscar winner.
Then came the guilt for wanting her. He imagined Kathleen at home with her parents, watching television, perhaps discussing flower arrangements for the wedding.
“How did you meet her?” Valerie asked gently.
Drew swallowed. “Her father owns an apple farm near Coldbrook. He’s one of the biggest producers in the valley. I went to work for him a few summers ago, and Kathleen and I got to know each other. She’s in the music program at Acadia.”
“You must have a lot in common, then,” Valerie said, sounding a touch jealous.
“I suppose.”
Valerie paused. “Can I ask you something?”
“Of course. Anything.”
She cleared her throat and spoke hesitantly. “Did you ever take her to our cabin in the woods?”
Drew straightened his shoulders. “Never.”
She took her time before speaking again. “Have you been back there since ... since we broke up?”
He tipped his head to let his temple rest on the cool glass and closed his eyes to dream about those idyllic days in the woods. “A few times, yes. I went out there with my guitar and tried to write, but I couldn’t. I think you must have been my muse.”
She laughed affectionately. “And you were mine.”
“That’s not true,” he argued. “You’ve written brilliant music and lyrics without me. You just won an Oscar for one of those songs.”
“But I was thinking of you when I wrote it,” she told him.
Her words gave him more pleasure than they should have, considering he was engaged to Kathleen. He felt a sudden urgent need to change the subject.
“I’m going to Acadia this fall,” he told her. “I’ve been accepted to the music program as a mature student.”
“That’s wonderful. Congratulations.”
“Thanks. I’d like to teach someday.”
“You’ll be wonderful at it. Your students will be so lucky to have you.”
“Now you’re just being kind,” he said.
She laughed softly. “Yes, but it’s the truth. I’m happy for you, Drew. I really am.”
He swung the telephone cord like a small skipping rope. “What about you? Are you seeing anyone? I saw you on television at the premiere for your movie. You were with your costar.”
“Yes,” she said, chuckling, “but that’s just for publicity. There’s nothing happening there. I’m quite happy on my own. I prefer it, actually. It’s such a busy life, and I’m surrounded by people all the time. When I come home at night, I like to be alone and just play my guitar.”
“It was always a joy for you, wasn’t it?” he said.
“Yes. A joy and an escape. Mostly an escape from my father. But whatever the reason, I’ve always felt most comfortable when I’m writing songs. These days it’s very calming and healing.”
Another car drove past, its headlights on high beam, windshield wipers snapping back and forth in the rain. Water sluiced along the curb edge and flowed into the grate.
“I’m glad you called,” Valerie said. “It was nice to hear your voice. And I’m sorry my letter took so long to reach you.”
“I’m sorry too.”
Drew wondered where they would be if he had received the first letter she’d sent. She almost certainly wouldn’t be in Hollywood, nor would she have received an Oscar. She and Drew might be living outof his van, a couple of hippies with no fixed address, writing music, searching for open roads with their little boy.
