Kalorama Road

1 We Meet Again

1

We Meet AgainTHE LAST TIME I saw Allison was two years ago. She sat alone on Emsworth University's campus quad steps talking on her mobile, oblivious to autumn's first snow dusting the campus white as she gazed at her Ugg clad feet. A black ski parka hugged snug around her slender figure. A beige wool ski cap framed worried brown eyes. Her bee-stung lips puckered and curved with hushed words. Despite obvious distress, I thought she looked more beautiful than I'd ever seen.

Hesitantly, I'd approached and sat across from her with concern. She glanced up for a minute, and in that instant, I'd wanted her to recognize me, but when she didn't, I figured it best she hadn't. Intently listening, her low voice rose and fell an octave with alarm as she spoke about the off-campus party three days prior. Worried something horrible happened; her pitch intensified a fearful trill. Allison's anguish had wrenched my heart and conscience, prompting a consoling need to reveal Kalorama Road's treachery, but I couldn't. Self-conscious, her eyes flitted about the quad and met and held my gaze an eternal second. And as I'd suspected, she'd forgotten everything, including me.

Now, here I am, two years later, about to see Allison again and worry her memory has returned. Ahead, a slanted building and large, red number nine graces the sidewalk like artwork, proclaiming my arrival at 9 West 57th Street. Distracted by memories of Allison, I enter her office building's revolving door, unaware I've circled past the exit twice. On the third rotation, I jump through the egress into a glassy lobby, and just in time, rescue my coattail from swift-moving flaps. More alert, I approach the security desk.

“I have an appointment with Allison Bertrand at McClelland.”

“May I see your identification?” The security guard asked.

“I'm thirty minutes early,” I said, pulling my driver's license from my wallet.

He shakes his head. “It's okay as long as someone's there,” he said, checking the computer and calling upstairs to confirm my appointment. “Mr. McThursten is here to see Ms. Bertrand … Okay,” he said, hanging up with a smile. Returning my driver's license with a guest pass, he points toward the left. “Thirtieth floor, elevator bank two.”

“Thanks,” I said, following his directions, arriving at a talking elevator.

Unknowingly, my father has thrust Allison back in my life. If he hadn't sent my manuscript to McClelland Publishing, I wouldn't be here. I had no intention of publishing the book. When I heard Allison's voice on the phone, I didn't know who she was until she revealed her name on the second call. I couldn't believe the fawned-eyed student from Emsworth University who'd entered my life one harrowing night had my manuscript. What are the odds of that? I couldn't resist seeing her, so here I am, ten floors from her office, wondering if her memory has returned. If so, will she remember me? The elevator opens in front of two large glass doors, and in that instant, I consider not entering, but the elevator doors close, squeezing and forcing me out. A gray-haired receptionist looks up and buzzes me in.

“Mr. McThursten, you're early. Allison will be here soon. You can hang your coat over there,” she said, pointing to a closet by the door.

I proceed to hang my trench, and when I turn around, the gray-haired receptionist is standing behind me.

“Allison just called. She's minutes away. Meanwhile, you can wait in the conference room until she arrives,” she said, leading me toward a room near the windows. “Can I get you coffee or tea?”

“No thank you. I'm fine.”

“She won't be too long. Help yourself to magazines,” she said, pointing at the side table and closing the door with a smile.

Too tense to sit, I approach the window and stare at Central Park's rectangular green, running through a city of cement skyscrapers thirty stories below. But Allison's fawn eyes and the stolen kiss takes precedence over city views. A kiss I can't forget. Will she remember? If she does, I'll have no choice but to tell her the truth. I glance at McClelland's clock. In twenty minutes, I'll find out.