God on a Harley Read online

  Greg’s beeper picked that convenient moment to go off, signaling him back to the OR so he could make more money than he ever could spend, simply for doing the work he loved. Some kind of masochistic streak emerged in me, and I dug hungrily for the sordid and painful details of his life before I would let him leave.

  I learned that his bride of three years was now pregnant with their third child. Somehow, I couldn’t picture Anna Ranucci pregnant with anything but bureaucratic ignorance (I refused to call her Anna Anderson—that was just too painful).

  I pictured them making love in the master bedroom of an oceanfront mansion. It was a far cry from the steamy, passionate nights I’d spent with Greg Anderson in his stuffy little on-call room, between stat pages to the trauma unit. I even remembered how that damned beeper would go off at all the wrong times and how we laughingly nicknamed it “CI,” short for “coitus interruptus.”

  The feel of Greg’s warm hand covering mine brought me back to my miserable present moment and the fact that we both had to get back to work. He leaned in to give me a perfunctory little kiss meant for my lips, but I turned my head just in the nick of time, forcing it to crash-land on my cheek. I could have sworn I heard him chuckle as he strode confidently out of the cafeteria, and I wondered when he had lost the frenetic dash of the intern.

  I sat there for a moment, immobilized by the intensity of my emotions and overcome with pain at seeing him again. Worse than the pain, though, was the slow realization that one ten-minute conversation with Greg had just completely erased the therapeutic effect of seven years away from him. Had I learned nothing in these last seven years? Had I turned my life upside down and moved a continent away, only to find that my heart had stayed behind?

  I allowed the futility and the hopelessness of the situation to wash over me. Apparently the damage inflicted on my heart all those years ago was irreversible. It was like being in a Code Blue when everyone is working feverishly to save the patient and all you hear is that flat, monotonous tone of the cardiac monitor signaling that there is no electrical activity in the heart. It’s over. Thank you very much, everyone, but there’s nothing more we can do.

  Suddenly, I was filled with rage. I hated Greg Anderson at that moment and I hated my pathetic life.

  I needed a drink.

  2

  THE END OF MY SHIFT couldn’t come fast enough. When the clock struck eleven-thirty, you would have thought I was Cinderella at the stroke of midnight. I gave the night-shift nurses a brief and hurried report, then bolted for the front door, leaving the mechanical melody of respirators and heart monitors behind in the darkened doorways.

  I didn’t care anymore. In fact, I hadn’t cared about anything in a very long time. It was sad to think there was a time when I was so naively compassionate, I felt every twinge of pain that my patients felt. No more though. What once had been a bottomless well of kindness and empathy was now a dried up, empty hole. There was nothing left for me to give or for anyone to take. Tonight, the only pain I could feel was my own. This was the new Christine Moore. I was going to work at becoming more selfish. I was going to bail out of this House of Wretchedness and save my own miserable life for once. Let everyone else fend for themselves.

  I slid into my ’91 Mazda Miata and realized that I had more affection for my car these days than I did for any human being, past or present. I drove to a local beachfront pub where I knew I could have a quiet drink by myself and not have to deal with a bunch of rowdy New Yorkers, or “Bennies,” as we natives liked to call them. Don’t ask me why we call them that, I have no idea. Someone started it and the name just stuck. Of course, New Yorkers can’t take a joke and had to retaliate by calling us “Clamdiggers.” So be it. Summer tourists were the last thing I cared about tonight as long as they just left me alone with my misery.

  My plan was to become pleasantly buzzed and push all traces of tonight’s pain to some far corner of my brain. Then and only then, I would begin to make a list of all the things I’d decided to hate, men of course, topping the list.

  The first Absolut and soda went straight to my head, since I hadn’t eaten much dinner after spotting Greg’s shiny gold wedding band. I pictured a massive destruction of brain cells with each sip of my drink and realized that if I was still thinking like a nurse, I definitely needed a second one.

  How could Greg have done that to me? I had loved him with my whole heart and soul, not to mention certain other body parts. I knew I had loved him in a way that Anna Ranucci never could. Why did men always turn out to be such shallow disappointments? And Greg hadn’t been the only one. Not by a long shot. There had been a long procession of insincere, selfish types who had both preceded and succeeded him. It’s just that seeing Greg tonight—seeing him so damn happy—was the straw that broke this camel’s back.

  The bartender placed a second Absolut and soda in front of me, and I didn’t protest. I must have looked like I needed it, sitting there as-sessing my empty shell of a life. Here I was, thirty-seven-years old and stuck in a profession that I didn’t care about anymore. God knows, I didn’t want to be a nurse any longer, but I also didn’t have any interest in going back to school for a new and unrelated career. The whole thing just seemed like too much effort for a person who was as tired as me. In a way, I had let the nursing profession do the same thing to me that men had done, use me, drain me of all emotion, and then throw me away like a disposable instrument tray.

  I glanced into the mirror behind the bar, and all I saw staring back at me was the reflection of a very tired and very lonely human being. Everyone behind me seemed to be in couples or at least trying to be, but I was content to stay by myself. I knew from all my psych courses that this was destructive behavior, but I honestly didn’t care. I had no “significant other,” and I wasn’t about to go looking for one. Besides, what a stupid term that was. Of course, it was better than calling them boyfriends. I’d stopped calling them that the day I turned thirty. “Boyfriend” is such a juvenile term, and besides, by the time you’re thirty, you’re supposed to have a husband, not a boyfriend. I was already seven years over the limit.

  Then there was my nagging little weight problem. Not that I would be considered fat by anyone’s standards but my own, but the fast food hamburgers and lack of any consistent form of exercise were beginning to show on my hips lately. That made me even more miserable than I already was, if that were at all possible.

  I took another absentminded sip of my drink and summed up my thoughts. I was a fat, misguided, lonely nurse who couldn’t even remember what it felt like to be happy. Worse yet, Greg Anderson was trim, rich, happy, and married. It seemed the only hope of changing my life, in any minute way, was to give up the last two things I really enjoyed: men and fast food. Well, I could probably give up the men easily enough. That would be a lot like giving up migraine headaches. It was giving up the comfort and convenience of fast food that left me feeling unbearably empty and deprived.

  I took another swallow of my drink, determined to enjoy some final guilt-free moments before beginning yet another stringent diet. That’s when an odd thing happened. I felt someone staring at me from the doorway. I couldn’t see him well enough to make out any distinguishing features because the bright light from the entrance silhouetted him and shaded his features from my gaze. So how did I know he was staring at me? I don’t know, I just did. Somehow there was no doubt in my mind that he was studying me under some kind of intense and unforgiving microscope.

  I dismissed the notion and chalked it up to the alcohol permeating my brain cells. What man in his right mind would be looking at me? I had definitely let myself go over the years, and clearly I was isolating myself, putting up some kind of invisible wall that would make any man with an ounce of sense (if there were any of them left) move on to greener pastures.

  Yet, even though I couldn’t get a good look at him, what I could see was very appealing. Oh, probably it was just wishful thinking on my part, because nothing else made sense.

&
nbsp; I was unaware at the time that things don’t always have to make sense.

  I got a closer look at him as he strolled toward the bar just as the band was finishing their last song of the set. He wasn’t particularly good-looking or striking in any of the usual ways, yet he immediately stood out from the nerds, the drunks, and the desperados. Everything about him said “Cool,” from his short in the front, long in the back sable hair, to his faded T-shirt and black motorcycle jacket with the sleeves rolled up.

  Much to my surprise, he sauntered up beside me, nodded to the bartender, and in a voice that was slightly raspy, yet vastly melodious, he ordered club soda with cranberry juice. This not only amused me, but piqued my curiosity. The man definitely had presence. Against my better instincts, my eyes fell to his graceful hand, noting the coarse black hairs and the prominent, pipeline veins (what can I say? I can’t stop being a nurse, even after a few drinks on an empty stomach). I watched him plunk a ten-dollar bill down on the bar and the nakedness of his left fourth finger did not escape me.

  When his virginal drink came, I could have sworn he winked at me before tilting the sweating glass to his curvy lips. He set the half-full glass down in front of him and strolled off toward the band, apparently unconcerned that he’d left $7.50 in bar change just sitting there. He seemed to know that no one would confiscate his claimed territory. No one would think of it. He had a fascinating aura about him.

  I couldn’t be certain, but he seemed to engage me in some kind of momentary eye-lock as he ambled past. I was in no mood for male egos or for meaningless flirtations, so I quickly looked the other way. I’d seen his type many times before, and I was not the least bit interested. Curious maybe, but certainly not interested. I could read him like a book, and this was one main character I could definitely do without, unflappable, self-possessed, and dispassionate. The kind I usually end up falling in love with.

  I have learned that I am an emotional diabetic and that men like him are Milky Ways, sweet at first but detrimental in the end. No sirree, I hadn’t had my heart put through the shredder without learning a thing or two. Still, I was intrigued as I watched him casually greet the band members, and I couldn’t help but notice the spark of recognition and delight in their eyes when they spotted him. I supposed he, too, was a musician of some sort since most of those types seem to immediately recognize the scent of a fellow artist.

  I deliberately tried not to notice him anymore after that and turned my attention instead to my drink, which, much to my surprise, was just about finished. I didn’t remember drinking the whole thing, but I must have. Tempted as I was to have a third, I knew better. As with men, anything more than moderation would give me regrets in the morning. Clearly it was time to go. I gathered my purse, left a fairly generous tip on the bar, and headed for the door, content in the knowledge that I had just averted another broken heart.

  Emerging from the cool, air-conditioned atmosphere of the pub into the muggy, sticky summer night was like walking into a steam room. The Bennies would consider it oppressive, but to a native Clamdigger like me, nights like this are what we dream of all winter long. The hazy, pregnant, summer moon lured me across the street to the beach. I have always loved to watch the lazy ocean waves ebb and flow and sift themselves through the sand. I thought about how the Bennies only flock to the beach in the daytime, complete with gold chains too numerous to count, sun block, makeup an inch thick, and blaring boom boxes. Only the Clamdiggers realize that the beach is at its loveliest at night when the moon lights up the rolling whitecaps and the tide whispers sweet nothings to anyone who’d like to listen.

  The early summer heat wave had driven a surprising number of otherwise sedentary people to the boardwalk in hope of finding a cool ocean breeze to punctuate the unusually high temperature. They spoke in late-night, hushed tones as they strolled the weather-beaten boardwalk, lusting after even the hint of a cool ocean breeze. Their voices were soothing and lulled me into quiet thoughts of my own.

  How had I become so unhappy with myself and the way my life had turned out? Why couldn’t I find solutions to the problems that were holding me back from a joyous life? I know for a fact that I am at least a fairly intelligent person and I’ve even known stupid people who are a whole lot happier than me. Why couldn’t I find a way to fill the emptiness in my life?

  Completely self-absorbed and lost in my thoughts, I walked the boardwalk with absolutely no idea of the marvel and the mystery that awaited me. I was also unaware of the loose board that was sticking up just in front of my foot. I stumbled on it and sailed through the darkness, striking my head on the cool metal railing and landing on my knees at the top of the stairs that led down to the sand.

  My eyes scanned the darkened beach in an attempt to reorient myself from the fall, and I thought I noticed an odd form in the middle of the beach. I must have hit my head harder than I thought, because I could have sworn I saw a man sitting on a motorcycle, though I knew that was pretty unlikely. No self-respecting biker would ever take the chance of getting sand in his bike, so now I was certain 1 must have had some kind of head trauma.

  I squeezed my eyes closed, then looked again. Sure enough, there was a man sitting on a motorcycle in the soft sand just beyond the boardwalk. As my vision cleared, I realized that he was perched atop not just any motorcycle, but a Harley-Davidson. The clean, powerful lines of the bike seemed to blend into the clean, powerful lines of his form, as though they were one, and from what I know about men and their Harley’s, they were one.

  The man and his bike were silhouetted against the backdrop of that huge, hazy moon, the kind that happens only in summer. The moon did its best to illuminate him, yet it wasn’t quite bright enough for me to make out any of the fine details, like the color of his eyes or the texture of his skin. All I could see was a rugged profile of the kind of man you would expect to be riding a Harley. Yet something else caught my eye. Perhaps it was the tilt of his chin that emanated gentleness, rather than arrogance, and the smooth curve of high cheekbones that made him almost pretty. Though at first glance, he cut a rather intimidating profile, the more I studied him, the less intimidating he became. There was a sense of peace about this man, and I was intrigued.

  Then I remembered what I’d decided about men just a mere twenty minutes ago in that bar across the street, and I dutifully chided myself. Here I go again, I thought, too romantic for my own good. I’m always giving men too much credit before they do anything to deserve it. I don’t suppose I’ll ever learn.

  “Yes, you will.” The words floated on the muggy air from his direction, and the voice was soft and kind. Even though the voice was unexpected, it didn’t startle me. But wait a minute, it should have startled me. I had only been thinking that stuff and I was certain I hadn’t said it aloud. How could he have heard me and why did he answer? Perhaps he had just been thinking out loud himself and hadn’t intended his words to be heard. Sure, that was it. Just some crazy kind of coincidence.

  His soft voice floated on the warm night air again. “Did you know that there is no such thing as a coincidence?” he asked. “Everything that happens, no matter how seemingly insignificant, is a part of the universal flow.”

  This was too much. “Who are you?” I demanded as I caught a flash of beautiful white teeth when he smiled.

  “Don’t be afraid,” he murmured ever so tenderly.

  “I’m not afraid of you,” I shot back, a little too confidently, given that I was still on my knees from the spill I’d taken.

  He said nothing. He didn’t have to. He simply offered his right hand and waited patiently for me to descend the stairs and to take it.

  Me? Was he nuts? Did I look that stupid? This guy obviously had a lot to learn about women.

  “Please,” he said, in just the right tone with just the right mixture of kindness and gentleness on his face.

  I was putty in his hands.

  3

  THESITATED FOR ONLY A MOMENT, knowing I should be leery, yet completely
unafraid of him. Me, the biggest cynic I knew, being drawn to a strange man by some unspeakable, indefinable force. I timidly approached him, never taking my eyes from his gentle face as I all but glided down the weather-beaten steps. I removed my shoes at the bottom of the stairs, and the cool sand soothed my weary, overheated feet. I stepped into the puddle of moonlight that surrounded him, and he extended his right hand more purposefully toward me, though his body remained relaxed and comfortable on his Harley.

  I recognized him as the guy from the bar who had been staring at me, the guy with the musician’s cool. I bashfully shook his outstretched hand, pulling away as quickly as good manners would allow (don’t ask me why I was concerned with etiquette at this moment). I know he sensed my shyness and apprehension, but he made no mention of it.

  “My friends call me Joe,” he said with a gentle smile. It struck me as an odd way to introduce oneself. Why not just say, “My name is Joe”? But then, I could tell already that there was nothing common or usual about this man.

  “I’m Christine,” I conceded shyly.

  “I know.”

  Now, normally, considering the predatory climate of this little summer resort town filled with all kinds of lonely hearts looking for one-night stands, I would have assumed he was a Benny with a good line, but something told me I would be wrong. He was far too serene to be a Benny and far too sophisticated to be a Clamdigger. Somehow I just knew he wasn’t even capable of using good lines. He simply didn’t need them. Everything he said oozed authenticity.

  “So why would someone with an ounce of sense park a beautiful bike like this in the sand?” I asked, trying to take the focus off myself. I was trying to sound confident and unflappable, like him, but I wasn’t quite pulling it off.

  “I’m not sure you’re ready to know that just yet,” he said in a velvety tone, through that ever-present smile.