The Interview Read online

  “Did you ever see him again?” the reporter inquired, vastly curious; she was fully entrenched in the story now.

  “Yes, before he left for training. I was sitting by the creek we’d loved to walk by so many times… he sat down and we just watched the water for an hour.”

  Candace looked puzzled.

  “That’s it?” she asked, not bothering to hide the chagrin in her voice. The writer found this amusing and chuckled merrily for some moments.

  “Ben was not a great talker, which was inevitably his downfall... with me anyway.” The reporter seemed heartened by this information and re-took up her pen. “After sitting in pleasant silence, he asked me if I liked him,” the authoress continued. “I told him he was too intelligent to not have noticed that I did. He smiled at me… a real smile; one he did not show often. He said he wanted to be in the military for a couple years, to get some things out of his system. I understood this, somehow; I think I always knew he’d never be mine, yet I hoped--back then--that he would. I offered to write to him, but he said the other guys would rib him about that and likely steal the letters anyway. He kissed me on the cheek and embraced me for a long time. He asked me to wait for him. I said I would.”

  A slow, rising feeling of sadness washed over Candace as she sat, listening. She felt a bit foolish for having assumed the woman before her had led some perfect life. The sage calm she exuded stemmed from real experiences and quelled dreams, despoiled hopes and disappointment… like anyone else. Not a juicy tale, but a common one all the same.

  “I guess he never came back,” she said, half-hoping she was wrong.

  The authoress gazed off in the distance, nodding a little.

  “Four years passed; my friends all dated extensively, but I did not once go out anywhere, not even in a group. I wasn’t anti-social; I just wasn’t interested in ‘making out’, especially with someone I didn’t care a fig for. It seemed illogical and I was content to wait for Ben.”

  “So, how did you end with James?” Candace asked, wondering if James and Ben were really the same guy. That would be an interesting angle; visions of ‘witness protection’ or ‘special forces identity change’ came to her mind.

  “I was introduced to him at one of my parent’s anniversary parties; they’d invite business associates as well as friends to their soirees. Everyone had a good time at those gatherings... full of music, food and just the right amount of dancing. I sang and played ‘If I fell in Love With You’ for them on the piano; it was their favorite song. They danced a lovely, slow waltz to it.” The writer let out a sentimental sigh. “After that my father brought James over for me to meet.”

  “That’s a good way to meet a guy,” Candace mused, aloud. “So, did he sweep you off your feet? Was it love at first sight?”

  The woman in the hat shook her head.

  “No. He was just another man in a suit to me. An annoying man in a suit… he kept talking to me and following me around the hall. He listened to my conversations with my parent’s friends. Finally, he asked me to dinner; I refused. Then, he did something no one else had done…”

  “What?” Candace asked; as she spoke she leaned forward a little, her eyebrows elevated.

  “He asked me ‘why’,” the authoress told her.

  “That’s… an odd question, alright. What did you say?”

  “By then I had figured out that men respond well to straight-forward answers; I told him that my heart was taken and any time or money he’d spend on me would prove fruitless.”

  There was a pause.

  “Well, what did he say?” Candace asked, impatient to know the rest.

  “Nothing, actually.”

  “Nothing?”

  “My dear you sound a bit like an echo…” the writer said, smiling.

  Candace straightened her posture a bit and cleared her throat waiting for the lady to continue. “He stood and thought about that for a moment then moved on to another person to talk. I figured that like all the others, he’d been successfully warned off by my candid answer.”

  “But…” Candace suggested, hopefully. The writer smiled.

  “But, as I found out later, he began questioning my parents about me, who I was seeing… all kinds of things; he asked them for my friends’ phone numbers; he began peppering my closer acquaintances and relatives with questions, especially about Ben. A few weeks later, he sought me out at the library.”

  “Studying?”

  “No; re-reading Jane Eyre. I was bored.”

  “Ah… well, did he say anything?”

  “Not at first. It took me some time to notice his presence, actually. He kept completely silent, pretending to read an old copy of Forbes. After awhile I saw him; by then my friends had informed me of the annoying man who kept interrogating them about my likes and dislikes. They clearly had neglected to tell him how much I dislike interfering strangers.”

  The reporter laughed.

  “Yeah, that’s on everyone’s hate-list,” she said, smiling. The authoress nodded, her smile well recovered.

  “I shot the man my best ‘go away’ glare and settled back into the book. A few seconds later, he sat next to me on the reading couch.” Fascinated, Candace made half-legible notes, keeping her eyes fixed on the writer’s face. A warm glow had replaced the slightly sad expression the woman’s had worn when peaking of her childhood crush.

  “He waited for a minute, but I paid him no mind. I couldn’t concentrate on my book, not with the man watching my face like that. I was just about to change seats when he spoke.” The authoress sat turned her head, matching the reporter’s gaze fearlessly. “James is an intense man, you know He speaks directly and likes sizing folks up; when he looks you in the eyes, you can tell he’s reading you, measuring your reactions. It unsettled me a bit, at first.”

  “Yeah,” Candace said, giving a half-smile. “I’ve seen him on TV, at events with you and such; he looks intimidating.” The writer nodded.

  “One must be in the corporate realm, especially as you near the top of the proverbial heap. And yet, despite my discomfort, I really wanted to know what this man wanted… and then he began asking me about Ben.”

  “Wait… he asked you about your old flame? Just like that?”

  “I must admit, I was thrown by the questions,” the authoress said, gently. “When I didn’t answer, he began rattling off the facts he’d gathered from my friends and parents; he’d even spoken to Ben’s folks.”

  “That’s a little creepy…” Candace began. The writer smiled.

  “That’s what I said. James shrugged and told me he was merely trying to secure the facts. I asked him 'what facts’... and he said: ‘whether or not you’re really in love with the guy’.”

  Candace stared at the woman.

  “You can’t be serious… what nerve!” The writer chuckled, merrily.

  “That’s James,” she said, smiling. “Nerves of steel.”

  “I guess… that must have irritated you a bit, yeah? Questioning your affection for Ben like that?”

  “Oh, I wanted to hit the man with my book,” the woman said, still chuckling. “His presence seemed to suddenly bring to light the yawing gulf of loneliness had been my only companion for so long. I had carefully filed away thoughts of Ben, hibernating, if you will, until his return. But, instead this man, this stranger to me was sitting in my favorite haunt not a foot away from my knee, taking my attention away from my favorite pastime, calling into question my most treasured hopes.”

  “Did you hit him with your book?” the reporter asked, with interest.

  “No, though, that would make good copy, wouldn’t it?” The writer smiled mysteriously, directing her gaze once more up on the trees opposite. “I did nothing for a minute; I just looked at the man, wondering what he was trying to do; wondering why my parents had given out such personal information to this man; wondering why Ben hadn’t called or written me in so, very long. James must have seen something tortured in my face because he placed his han
d over mine and began speaking to me very gently.”

  “What did he say?” Candace did not mind that she sounded like a three year old at her grandmother’s knee; she had to know the rest of the story. It was just such a strange thing for a man to do.

  “He told me he was interested in finding a wife and that I’d caught his attention. The way I’d played for my parents’ anniversary dance had impressed him, not that my piano skills are great, but apparently I’d sung sadly, sweetly… he was moved by it. Then, he told me he really started to like me after I told him to push off.”

  “Typical… a challenge is like catnip to some guys,” the reporter said, snorting.

  “True, but James had a bit of a different reason,” the writer explained. “He liked my honesty. He liked that I wasn’t flirting with anyone and that I didn’t pretend to be interested in him. He said he could go a long time and without finding someone he liked so well as me.”

  “He said we had several things in common, like walking, picnics, intelligent conversation and being alone with a good book. He pointed out that if a man was going to marry he should find a wife with whom he had a few things in common.”

  Candace found her felt nodding in agreement, despite her annoyance at the man’s methods.

  “It’s nice that he told you exactly what he wanted…” she said, slowly. “I wish more guys would do that.” The authoress gave a sage nod.

  “This occurred to me as well,” she said. “As much as the man angered me with his manner, he was being extraordinarily forthcoming… unlike anyone else I’d ever met. And then, he asked me a strange question… he said: I know you like this Ben character, but I want to know this: did he ask you to marry him?”

  The breeze blew over the walkway and bench, making the brim of the writer’s hat move a little. Candace pushed her bangs out of her eyes and waited for the woman to continue.

  “I had to admit that he had not. Saying it was… difficult… for me. James kept my gaze the entire time; he didn't touch me again but I felt comforted somehow by his presence. It was a strange feeling. James had more to say; he appeared to be relieved by my answer. He said: ‘well, I ‘m asking to marry you. I like you; I think we’d even be happy together. Since this Ben is not here to contend with, I’m fairly certain I can win you over.”

  The reporter had lost all interest in taking notes.

  “What did you say?” she asked, eagerly.

  “Nothing… I didn’t get a chance to speak. He just tossed out that sentence and got up; he walked right out of the room and left the library. Jane Eyre was completely forgotten, I can tell you.”

  “I'll wager she was!”

  “I went home, and spoke with my father. He informed me that James had asked him for my hand in marriage a week earlier. I was dumbfounded… things like that happen in books, you know… ones written centuries ago. The fact that Ben had never even mentioned marriage suddenly became quite apparent. I had no tangible evidence that he even cared about me, merely a faint hope that he did. He’d never even said it. I did not get much sleep that night… in fact I cried a great deal.” The authoress sighed again; the sound of it filled Candace with a morose kind of sympathy. “I suppose I was mourning that night, weeping for dreams which had been slowly dying already.” The woman in the hat glanced at the couple down the path again. “You see, it was not that Ben wasn’t there… my soul is worked over with a stubborn sort of loyalty. My affection was, however, misplaced in Ben; he was unworthy of it. His actions warranted no allocation of my precious time or emotions be granted to him. That night, I decided that a literal James was worth more than a figurative Ben.”

  The reported giggled softly at that and wrote it down.

  “That’s a good one.”

  “I thought so as well. I repeated that line to myself several times before drifting off to sleep. The next morning, I spoke with my father about James. A good measure of character in his eyes was respect, and James had proved that by not only asking him for me, but in questioning my character... testing my loyalty. ‘It means he’s really interested in you, sweetie’, he told me. I walked along the creek for some hours that morning, just thinking. James was sitting on my parent’s porch when I returned.”

  “Nice of him to give you space like that…” Candace put in. The writer smiled.

  “He probably couldn’t find me and went back up to the house, knowing I’d eventually return.”

  “So… did he start interrogating you again?”

  “No. I offered him a glass of iced tea. He accepted and we sat, drinking tea and looking at my mother's garden.”

  “Sounds boring…” Candace thought, doodling on the notepad margins; her story seemed to be slipping into a more 'mundane' category.

  “Ours is not the most exciting story…” the authoress began, after a moment, “No pirates, or near death experiences, no car break-downs or love triangles… I started out with a completely clean slate with James. I didn’t fall for him right away, but I knew right where I stood with him. That made liking him a little easier.”

  “So… when did you know you loved him?” the reporter asked, interested again. The serene demeanor of the woman on the bench made her feel almost ashamed of wanting a more thrilling tale to tale; so many people had everyday love stories, just like hers. Just like the ones in her books.

  “We spent that summer talking on my parent’s veranda…” the lady answered. “One day I laughed at one of his jokes… he did not tell them very often, something I found I liked. He was not a clown. When I laughed, he looked over at me and smiled; I noticed that his eyes reflected the greenery well… they looked interesting. Another morning, when he’d been away on business for a few days I realized I liked his company.”

  “You missed him.”

  “I did. Then, one day--while James was helping me pick some herbs for my mother in the garden--it dawned on me that I hadn’t thought about Ben in a long time. That night I took out my old journals and re-read the entries I’d made on the boy I had once thought so highly of. The prose seemed awfully juvenile all of the sudden; it angered me to read them, really… the boy I’d known seemed wholly unworthy next to the man who’d asked me to marry him. I burned the journals, and the sketches I’d drawn of Ben. Even the little friendship bracelet he’d given me so many years previous. I know that seems a bit drastic… but it healed something in me. I felt able to grow up, and James’ company constantly reminded me that I didn’t have to go it alone. The fact that my parents loved the man also gave me courage.”

  “That would help…” Candace admitted, soberly. “So, did you say ‘yes’ or was that just unnecessary?”

  The writer laughed, softly.

  “He asked me out for a picnic… my parents declined to go, which surprised me. I baked a few appetizers, not wanting him to think my mother was the only cook in the house…”

  “Trying to impress the guy, eh?”

  “That did not occur to me until later. But, yes; I suddenly cared what this man thought of me, oddly enough. I was careful not to slouch, or jabber on too much. I worried about how I smelled, how my hair looked… things I had never cared to worry about before. ‘You’re quiet today’ James remarked, as we drove. I merely nodded; inwardly, I wondered why I could think of nothing to say. All my wit was stolen away… my philosophies focused on the man next to me, though I didn’t want to admit that out loud. He asked me what I was thinking about. I told him I’d rather not say; he laughed, smiling at the windscreen. He said he was glad I still felt free to be honest with him.”

  “So… a romantic picnic,” Candace said, writing. The writer shrugged, a little.

  “That’s such a trite word… ‘romantic’,” said she. “It’s almost a cliché in of itself.” The woman paused a moment before continuing. “That picnic meant so much more than what a mere adjective could speak of… it was where I realized I loved James, you know. Aside from welcoming your children into the world, there nothing in a woman’s life quite as spec
ial as finding your soul mate.”

  “Yeah… that’s what keeps romance novels selling like they do,” Candace put in. “We’re all looking for that.”

  The authoress nodded; the reporter noted that despite being a best-selling writer, the woman’s slow, patient nod was a better answer than words.

  “We sat for some time, just eating and watching the scenery; he’d picked a large tree to sit under, on the edge of some farmland. Birds were flocking at the far-away haystacks and bickering over bugs. It was enjoyable to sit with him.”

  “Did you think of Ben?” Candace asked, wondering if she was egging too much. For some reason she felt bothered about trying to rattle this woman.

  “Once; though, doing so brought out tears of regret.”

  “Did James notice you crying?”