The Shoebox Read online

  “You know how it’s been, Jake. I’m just exhausted and now stuffed, thanks to your wife’s meatloaf.”

  They hugged, and Jake stared at Peter. “You sure you’re all right? You suddenly seem kind of weird.”

  “I’m fine. Should I wait for Amanda to come down?”

  “Janie’s probably going to take a little time. I’ll tell her you were tired.”

  “I’ll call you tomorrow.” Peter patted Jake on the back.

  Peter sat on his bed staring at the shoebox, the television on. The items were spread out—old photos overlapping each other, the ticket stubs still showing a faint date, December 31, 1965, a postcard from the time she’d gone to the Outer Banks with her family with a huge red lipstick imprint on it and the hand-written lines: “Press lips here. Love, Maddy.” Over them all draped a silver chain with a small silver heart in a row of tiny diamonds.

  He wondered why he hadn’t found the shoebox earlier. He’d lived at Jake and Amanda’s for years and not once stumbled across it.

  Startled by the phone, he realized he had been sitting on the bed in the same position for over an hour.

  Chapter 2

  Saved

  1965

  It was the end of spring, and Peter had just turned twenty-two. Once again he and his father were competing in the annual sailing regatta in Chatham, Massachusetts, a New England village filled with hydrangeas and lilacs, sailboats and antique shops. It was a day of family and friends, good food and excitement on the waves. Peter and his father had entered the competition and won the coveted Chatham Cup two years in a row.

  This year, his parents had joined his sister at the Country Club for the evening gala and dance, and he’d told his father he’d stay behind and secure the boat, give it a good cleaning before meeting up with them.

  Truth be told, he was simply longing for quiet time on the sailboat alone.

  Peter loved the sea—the smell of ocean air at the end of the day, the sound of the gulls and the waves crashing against rocks, the warm sand on his feet. He hated Country Club dinners—boring small talk, distant acquaintances of his parents’ like the Lamberts and Rumfields, the Vandercamps and Sinclairs, even relatives of the Kennedys who caused a scene whenever they entered a room. Peter loathed the typical questions about ambition and careers and future sailing competitions. He wanted to be on his own with the sea and his sailboat. He wanted to feel challenged, to feel thrilled, but not the challenge or thrill of mingling with Chatham’s elite.

  He stood by the bow in his old jeans and white linen shirt, his long dark hair blowing across his tanned face, while the evening breeze came in with the tide and the setting sun changed to a crimson sphere. He adjusted his puka shell necklace, lost in thought, studying the trim work along one side of the boathouse and imagining how to adapt it to a new design. When he glanced at the dock again someone was walking toward him.

  She was young and slender, with long chocolate-brown hair that shimmered with gold highlights when she turned, preoccupied with a small easel in her arms. She wore white shorts, strapless heeled sandals, and a thin, light-blue shirt over a white tank top. Her sunglasses sat on top of her head as she stopped to check her canvas bag bulging with paintbrushes.

  When she glanced up and caught sight of Peter, she started, her left heel slipped between two planks, and she stumbled, dropping her easel and canvas bag. The bag opened and tubes of paint and brushes rolled out and broke along the wooden boards.

  Peter flung over the side of the boat onto the dock and was at her side in one quick motion. He took her hand and helped her up, then knelt to pry her shoe from the dock. The heel broke off and stuck between the planks. She looked down at her heel and then up at Peter, and they began to laugh. She crouched and tried to pry the heel out, but only succeeded in loosening it and losing it to the water, and she and Peter laughed harder as they watched the heel float away. Still without a word, he picked up her art supplies.

  “Would you believe me if I said this has never happened before?” Her voice was soft.

  “It would be hard to imagine it happening twice.”

  “I can be graceful when I try.”

  “I have no doubt.” Peter smiled. “Is this everything?” He gestured with his head to his arms filled with paintbrushes and canvas.

  “You got it all, and most heroically, I might add, the way you jumped over the side of your boat. Do you always rescue helpless art majors stumbling down the dock?”

  “It’s getting old.” He looked into her eyes—large and hazel, with tiny specks of green—and slowly the young woman smiled back.

  She hobbled the length of the dock as he walked alongside her, up the sidewalk and through town, and Peter was so taken with her that he failed to notice when they turned onto his own block.

  “You’re kidding me.” He looked at her house when she stopped. A brick walkway through pink azalea bushes ran past a small white picket fence around a trellis for roses. The house was white with black shutters, and an iron black light post stood at the entrance with hanging baskets filled with petunias.

  “Is something wrong? We just moved here a week ago.”

  Peter laughed out loud. “I don’t even know your name, and we’ve been neighbors an entire week. I live across the street.” He gestured toward his father’s shiny blue new El Dorado Cadillac in the driveway.

  “Small world!” The young woman smiled up at him. “I moved across the street from a superhero.”

  Peter looked away, blushing. “So are you going to tell me your name, or am I going to have to wonder about the young woman on one heel all night?”

  “Sorry. The least I can do, right? I’m Madeline, Madeline Marsden. Thank you so much for all your help, and you are?”

  “I’m trying to be smooth here, and I haven’t even told you my name. Peter Michaels.”

  “Two first names. You must be important—they named you twice.”

  He looked into her eyes, smiling so deeply the dimples creased his cheeks.

  Madeline met his gaze for an instant and looked quickly to her front door. “Saved and escorted, all in the same night. Thanks again.” She paused for a moment and glanced at him. “You’re very sweet.” She reached for her art supplies.

  He could hardly control his smile. “Are you busy later? I mean do you have time to, say, grab a coffee at Frani’s?”

  “I have a hunch I might be free. Around eight, Peter?”

  He couldn’t explain it, but it made his heartbeat speed up when she said his name out loud. It was as though she’d been saying it all his life.

  She paused, her canvas bag on her hip. “Do you think you can stay out of trouble until then? I mean, even Superman gets a break sometime.”

  “Does he? I don’t think so. I think he’s always looking out for people.”

  She laughed and swung around the black iron lamppost, turning to run up the brick path between the pink azaleas.

  He watched her go up the steps and through the front door. It was a quiet Cape Cod home, no different from any other, but he wanted to return.

  When he got back to the marina, Peter locked up the boat and stepped onto the dock, the sun setting deep along the water’s edge. It was mesmerizing to him, how it all worked: the sun, the wind blowing the mast, dark waves hitting the rocks. It reminded him of an overture, with its rhythm and syncopation, every wave a beat under the call of each passing gull in the evening.

  An hour later, he stood in his room in front of the mirror, staring into his reflection. He wondered what Madeline Marsden thought of him. He had always been confident when it came to work and school, but regardless of how relaxed he was with women he’d never felt cocky about his appearance. Now for the first time he was nervous.

  He dabbed just a bit of cologne on his chest and towel-dried his hair. He picked out three different shirts, put them back, pulled o
ut a denim shirt, and put it on over a white long-sleeve T-shirt. He put on his favorite jeans and tucked in his T-shirt all around, with one last look in the mirror as he left the room.

  Twenty minutes later, he sat in a corner booth overlooking the ocean and part of Main Street. He’d picked this spot because he knew whether Madeline came from Main Street or Arch Street she could see him.

  Frani’s Diner was a simple grey building with glass windows all around, the booths outdated and the walls in need of a paint job, but the space charming, with small juke boxes at each table and coffee-colored walls displaying photos and newspaper clippings and the Blue Plate Special. On Mondays Frani served fried chicken, Thursdays it was always meatloaf. The town regulars who filled the booths and stools gave the place its character, along with the best apple pie and Salisbury steak, hash browns and chicken potpie in all of Chatham.

  The waitress had approached Peter twice before he saw Madeline turning the corner, and his heart jumped, a sharp palpitation that leaped into the lower part of his throat like nothing he’d ever felt before.

  She spotted him, and he met her at the door, under the dangling bells that sounded when he opened it.

  He smiled at her flip-flops. “Playing it safe?”

  “You only rescue once a week, and I’ve already filled my quota.”

  He signaled to the waitress for two coffees and slid into the booth across from her. He checked his watch. “Only three minutes late.”

  “I like to be mysterious.” Madeline pulled her long brown hair shyly over her shoulders. “It’s good to make the other wonder a bit, don’t you think?”

  The waitress brought coffee and a dessert menu, and after they’d ordered apple pie they faced each other waiting, neither able to maintain a straight face. Madeline took a sip of coffee and looked up at the wall where old photos hung over the booth. When one caught her attention, she squinted to get a better view.

  “Are you looking at this?” Peter lifted the frame off the wall and laid it on the table, a photo of a young man and woman smiling, posed on the beach in bathing-suits of the 1940s.

  “It’s beautiful,” she said. The exposure was damaged and there were scratches on the glass, but it was obvious the two were in love.

  “What’s their story?” Peter touched the edge of the old frame gently where the miter joint was pulling apart.

  Madeline smiled. “Let’s see—he was in love with her for an entire year before he got the courage to profess his love.”

  “Did she notice him? Did she feel the same?”

  “Yes, instantly, but it wouldn’t have been right for her to act on it. So she waited. But she watched him every day.”

  “She was aloof.”

  “Nonsense, just careful. He might have thought she was aloof because he was chicken.”

  Peter glanced up and saw the sparkle in Madeline’s eyes. He began to laugh. “He wasn’t chicken—”

  “We need a name for him, Peter.”

  “His name was Michael. And hers?”

  “Frani.” When Madeline smiled, her nose crinkled so that Peter’s breath caught in his throat.

  “Well, he wasn’t chicken. He just wanted to wait.”

  “For what?” She leaned in, intrigued.

  “For her to want him as much as he wanted her.”

  She exhaled slowly. She looked from the photo to Peter. “You think they’re still together,” she whispered as she stared into the picture.

  “Most definitely.” Peter’s hands lay on either side of the frame, muscles flexing under his leather wristband. “Nothing can keep two people who love each other apart.”

  “Something can. Death.”

  They sat for a moment, then he leaned back and reached overhead to hang the photo back on the wall. “I believe some people are just destined to be together, that the force that brings them together will keep them united even through death.”

  “Peter Michaels, you’re not only Superman, you’re a dreamer too.”

  “And you don’t? Dream?”

  She curled a lock of shining brown hair around one finger. “That’s my problem. I’m more of a realist.”

  “But artists are dreamers by trade. You can’t be a realist. That would be an oxymoron.”

  “You’re an oxymoron!”

  They laughed, and he laid his hand on the table only inches from hers. When the waitress returned with their desserts, he picked his fork up and waited politely.

  Madeline turned her plate. “So what do you do when you’re not sailing or rescuing people?”

  His eyes were teasing. “Look for someone easy to talk to.”

  “You must find many people easy to talk to.”

  “Not at all. Most people around here are too self-centered and high-maintenance for me. I like someone who isn’t trying to convince me they’re something they’re not. I can’t do that. What you see is what you get.”

  “Same here. I hate pretentious people. I don’t enjoy small talk about frivolous things.” She took a sip of coffee and noticed his puka shell necklace. “I’m going to guess that you’re a sailor involved in the regatta. Am I right?”

  “Very perceptive.”

  “Have you won?”

  He held up two fingers. “The coveted Chatham Cup.”

  “Say that three times fast.” She laughed. “Now tell me something I don’t know. Tell me what you want to do with your life.”

  “My whole life? I’m flattered that you ask.” Peter leaned eagerly over his plate, his fork in one hand. “I love sailing—it’s one of my favorite pastimes—but my true calling is architecture.”

  “Really?” Madeline swallowed a bite. “What do you want to build?”

  “Everything. Anything. Hopefully something. Right now I’m just struggling to finish my degree, go to grad school, and try to intern in a good firm. The rest will follow. If you set your mind to something I believe it can happen. My mother says I was always drawing buildings. I made a city out of milk cartons once for a sixth-grade project.”

  “I’m impressed. You sound very sure of yourself.”

  “I’m really not, but I’m glad you think so.” He sat back in his seat, blushing.

  Madeline winked. “I thought you were the beach surfer dude-slash-musician type who gets all the girls.”

  “I like your perception better than reality.” He was turning his leather wristband nervously. “I play a little guitar.”

  She gasped and spilled a bit of pie off her fork onto her lap. She wiped her lap quickly with her napkin. “How long have you played?” When she smiled up at him, she revealed again the two tiny crinkles at the top of her nose.

  “That’s cute.” He pointed. “Your nose gets little lines when you smile.”

  “Stop it.”

  “It’s cute.”

  They stared at one another for a few seconds, their smiles impossible to disguise. The sounds in the room grew dimmer until the beating of Peter’s heart filled his ears. When the waitress paused at their table with the coffee pot, Peter and Madeline glanced up flustered, and the waitress clicked her tongue knowingly as she collected their plates.

  “My turn.” He pushed his long bangs back. “I’m guessing you’re an art major.”

  “Good guess.” Madeline was trying to cool her blush with the backs of her hands. “Especially since I was carrying an easel and art supplies.”

  “I knew it!” He took a drink of coffee. “Are you talented?”

  “I’m okay. I don’t think I’ll be famous. I get the most joy from teaching. I think I want to teach kids—something along those lines.”

  “I can see that. You could make learning a very pleasant experience.”

  She laughed, lifting her hair off her shoulders, and accidentally snorted.

  “I knew you couldn’t be perfect,” he tease
d.

  “My image is shattered!” She pretended to stand. “I should go now.”

  He grasped her hand across the table. “Don’t you even think about moving.”

  Her breath seemed to stop short as she sat back down. Her eyes never left his, and he held her hand as the minutes ticked by until her gaze retreated to her plate. She removed her hand gently from his and took up her fork, separating a flake from her piecrust with great delicacy.

  “Do you not like it?” He touched her arm.

  “I did. I do. I’m just not that hungry.”

  “You don’t eat, you have trouble keeping your balance, and you allow strange men to walk you home. Anything else?”

  “I don’t think you’re that strange. Odd maybe, but not strange.”

  “Thank you.” He rested his head on his arm and leaned in, watching her sip her coffee. “I’m happy you met me for coffee,” he said after a moment. “I’m grateful that you lost your balance on the dock, and I’m grateful I was the one who rescued you.”

  She smiled and blushed to the roots of her shining brown hair.

  Peter put out one hand, not quite touching her arm. “Can I ask you something?”

  “Depends on whether or not I want to answer it.”

  “Maybe you are high-maintenance, after all.”

  “I’m kidding.” She wrinkled her nose at him. “What were you going to ask me, Peter?”

  “Are you dating anyone?”

  She paused for a second before she answered. “No. I’m not dating at the moment.”

  “Why the long pause? Are you not sure? Is there some guy you might have forgotten?”

  “No. There is no guy. I’m single.”

  “I’m surprised. I didn’t think someone like you would be unattached.”

  “Someone like me?” She touched his hand.

  He took her hand and held it. He was reminded of a literature class he’d taken in his freshman year where his professor had quoted the great philosophers. He remembered that Plato believed we are placed on this earth in incomplete form, mere halves of something more, and we go through life searching for our other halves. And when we find it, this being we are destined to join, we find complete harmony of souls and spirits. We become whole.