The Three of Us -2-

Paul Conrad

Here I was, twenty years after college, and I still couldn’t bear the thought of confronting the Great Paul Conrad—my nemesis—and so for twenty years I hid and wallowed in self-pity.

Of course, I had attained a measure of success in my own right as an author, but I failed in the one thing I always desired—the only thing I ever absolutely needed—the love of Joanna Selby.

Paul Conrad owned the proprietary rights to her and I fully expected him to exercise that option—why he never did was beyond me—but that didn’t change anything.

He was entitled, and I wasn’t—he deserved the girl and I inherited his leavings.

I was the curator of several photo albums of the two of us sailing through the Florida keys, attaching myself to his greatness in the vain hope some would rub off on me—and, of course, it never did.

He went on to success and a fashionable notoriety, and as for me, I could hardly breathe, suffocating in loneliness, far more desolate than any could conceive.

The isolation of the writer’s life, I’d aver, hiding behind the persona and aggrandizing the emptiness of my own choosing.

This past year when the misery became too unbearable I adopted a dog—Sasha, a huge Bernese mountain dog who was a rescue—but truth was, she rescued me.

I never knew affection until I cared for her. All the nights coming home to an empty house were behind me.

I stopped travelling, preferring to stay home with Sasha rather then leave her in a pet retreat, or with Mark, my agent, who was more than willing to romp with her in the ravine park below his condo. But she belonged with me.

Sasha fulfilled a need. She kept me company, and I needed that more than anything.

But now I was going to a wake for my ‘best’ friend whom ironically I hadn’t visited in twenty years, and undoubtedly, I’d meet Joanna Selby whom I hadn’t seen in as long—except nightly in my dreams.

The veneer of my world was intact—outwardly, everything smelled good and looked good, but inwardly? Well, let’s just say my seams were showing.

It turned out Mark’s prognostications about Paul’s funerary rites were only partially true. There was a formal funeral in a small local chapel, restricted to family and only a chosen few.

I was there in my dark blue suit and Joanna was there too. She arrived late and we had no opportunity to talk at the service or afterwards at the grave, but were invited to a subdued reception at The Wiltshire Club.

I suppose I shouldn’t have been surprised, but was—at the press clamoring outside, the flashbulbs popping, and Joanna’s entourage. In truth, I was intimidated and hung back, suddenly self-conscious around her and afraid of embarrassing myself.

Paul’s parents were gracious, perhaps sensing I was uncomfortable, which I was. Paul’s uncle took me under his wing regaling me with sailing yarns, supposing I still plied the seas when frankly I hadn’t stepped foot on a dock, let alone a sailing skiff for years.

Just when the strain became oppressive I felt a soft touch on my shoulder and a whisper in my ear.

“Hello, Alex.”

I turned to stare into the eyes I saw every night in my dreams.

“Joanna—you look lovely.”

I instinctively leaned in and let my lips gently brush her cheek. Just then, a gleam of light illumined her face causing her brows to knit into a frown.

“Andre,” she pleaded in an exasperated tone, looking to a huge man standing nearby. He nodded and melted away to dispatch the marauding photographer.

She looked flustered and upset.

“They have no respect—I’m sorry, Alex—it’s my life, I’m afraid.”

“I understand,” I smiled reassuringly. “You’re famous—of course the paparazzi will pursue you.”

She grasped my hand. “Come,” she said, leading me away, “I want some alone time with you.”

My heart raced—it was only an expression—a mere polite statement, but my foolish blood stirred.

But even now with Paul gone I wasn’t foolish enough to presume. I knew the place where I rightfully belonged, and I certainly didn't merit a chance with her.

© 2018, John J Geddes. All rights reserved

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