A Winter Dream - By Richard Paul Evans Page 0,28
me. My little brother stole company money. They threatened to send him to prison if I didn’t leave the state. So I’ve been banished to Chicago.”
“That’s very odd.” Her brow furrowed. “I don’t understand why your brother stole but you got kicked out. Why didn’t they send your brother away?”
“It’s because he isn’t a threat to them. But they know that I’m close to my little brother, so it was a way to get rid of me.”
“So you took the bullet for your brother.”
“You could say that.”
She thought over my story. “I think it’s beautiful that you would sacrifice yourself for your brother, but I hate that your brothers used your love against you. Love should never be used as a weapon.”
“Love is a weapon,” I said.
“No,” she said. “It’s not. Love is love.”
“I’m just saying that people use others’ love against them all the time,” I said.
She frowned. “I can’t argue with that.” She finally abandoned her chopsticks and speared a piece of spider roll with her fork. When she’d finished eating it, she said, “That must have been hard on your father. What did he say when you told him you were leaving?”
I slowly shook my head. “I didn’t. Part of the deal was that I wouldn’t talk to my parents, so my brothers got to spin the story. I’m sure they’ll make it convincing. That’s what admen are good at.”
“You really were banished.” She thought for a moment, then said in a thoughtful tone, “It’s a hard thing losing your home and the people you’ve loved.”
She said this as if she truly understood. We went back to eating, and our conversation turned to lighter topics, mostly the experiences of the day: her conquering the Ferris wheel, the number of bruises I’d gotten ice-skating, and the true identity of the woman in the Grant Wood painting American Gothic.
“I always assumed it was a picture of a farmer and his wife,” I said.
“No,” April said, “It’s his spinster daughter.”
“How did you know that?”
“I study art.”
Later in the evening, a Beatles song, “Norwegian Wood,” came on over the restaurant’s sound system. About halfway through the song, April said, “I like this song. It’s pretty.”
“I like it too,” I replied.
“I wonder who sings it.”
“It’s the Beatles,” I said. “But it wasn’t one of their bigger songs.”
“Oh,” she said. “The Beatles.” She took a bite of sushi, then asked, “Are they new?”
I looked at her to see if she was kidding. She just looked back at me.
“No. They’ve been around awhile.”
“I’ll have to find some of their music. They’re pretty good.”
“Yes,” I replied. “Some people think so.”
It was nearly eleven when April yawned and checked her watch. “Oh my, it’s late. We better get on home.”
“It’s been a nice day,” I said. “Thank you for the . . . tour.”
“It has been nice,” she said. “And it was my pleasure.”
I paid the bill, then, with our waiter’s help, found the nearest Blue Line station.
As we neared the Irving Park stop, April said, “This is my stop. Yours is two down. After Montrose.”
“Should I walk you home?”
“No. It’s safe.”
As the train approached the station, I asked, “Can I see you again? For another tour?”
She reached into her purse and brought out one of the diner’s business cards and scribbled a number on the back of it. “That’s my phone number.”
The train stopped and the door opened. April hesitated, looking at me, almost as if she wanted a kiss. Then she said, “Call me, please.” She touched my arm, then stepped out onto the platform.
I watched her out the window. She just stood there, looking at me with a sweet, sad look. She waved as the train pulled out.
I couldn’t figure her out. She had been most adamant that today hadn’t been a date, but then she wanted me to ask her out.
The train reached the Jefferson Park station just five minutes later. As I walked home, I realized that even though we’d talked all day, I didn’t really know anything about her—except that she seemed to have a peculiar disconnect with popular culture. She knew Rachmaninov and Grant Wood but had never heard of Hitchcock or the Beatles? How could you not know who the Beatles were?
There was more to this woman than met the eye. I was looking forward to finding out what that was.
CHAPTER
Fourteen
Nothing is so predictable as the dominance of the unpredictable.
Joseph Jacobson’s Diary
The next Monday morning I had been at my desk for less than an hour when Timothy