The Three of Us -3-

I was finally alone with Joanna, but it took Paul Conrad’s death for that to happen. The irony was not lost on either of us.

She led me back through the hall to a small reception room with a view of a snowy ravine.

“We can talk here in peace,” she smiled.

I sat opposite her on a sofa chair, still awed by her beauty. She had always been lovely at university, but the youthful prettiness of a coed had now been replaced with a mature elegance that was breathtaking.

“You’re staring,” she whispered.

I flushed, “I’m sorry—it’s been a while.”

What that banality was supposed to mean, I had no idea. I really wanted to say that over the years she had grown even more beautiful and was lovelier now than I remembered—but true as the sentiment was, it would sound unbelievably lame.

Besides, I was sure she heard far more eloquent compliments daily from the various men in her life.

So, in response to my excuse about the passage of time, she nodded as if she agreed, but I knew she didn’t believe a word.

Her huge eyes were probing mine, seeming to look into my soul.

“It’s hard to accept we’re meeting again like this—it’s certainly not how I envisioned it.”

I shrugged, attempting to feign nonchalance, but I was trembling inside. “I doubt either of us thought Paul would go out like this—he was more a god than a man.”

She smiled. “Really? Is that how you saw him?”

“Didn’t you?” I asked incredulously.

“Not particularly,” she whispered, as a dark cloud passed over her features.

She seemed preoccupied with something else, almost as if she resented the mention of our friend at all.

An awkward silence fell between us that lasted a few moments, but then, she recovered as if a transient pain had passed, and picked up the thread of our conversation again.

“I saw Paul more as a bohemian—a free spirit, I suppose. I’m sure women were drawn to him, but he wasn’t my type. Mind you, the one thing we had in common was a passion for life—but then, you had that too. We all did.”

I was dimly aware of her inflection, but preoccupied with nostalgia for Paul, I only shook my head sadly, staring off into the snowy dusk.

“It was youthful exuberance," I said finally, "but I honestly believed it—believed we could live that way forever—free as birds.”

Her eyes brightened.

“So, you didn’t settle down, Alex—you never married?”

I shook my head.

“You did better than me,” she sighed.

It was my turn for my eyes to grow bright in amazement.

“You married? There was no report of that in the press,” I protested.

“No, there wasn’t,” she said sadly. “It was better for my career to keep it quiet—and oh, we kept it quiet—yes, we certainly managed that.” There was a bitter smile.

It was a watershed moment—an intimate disclosure intended to convey a message.

I didn’t realize it at the time, but looking back, I realized what Eliot meant when he wrote about there being enough time for a hundred indecisions, and for a hundred visions and revisions.

I had my moment and missed it.

© 2018, John J Geddes. All rights reserved

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