Seattle after Midnight

Clear as daylight, he saw that person. For a moment he had to close his eyes, choke back tears.

Courtney, he reminded himself. I have to check out her house. Tentatively he opened his eyes. Tried clearing his throat, then singing along to the song on the radio.

He was fine. Everything was under control. He turned on the windshield wipers, then hit the button on the visor to close the garage. He was more determined than ever to get away from this place. Carefully, he eased onto the road, then switched gears and nosed the car down the lane.

STANDING AT the window in her darkened living room, Sylvie Moreau watched until the taillights of her lover’s car had disappeared around a corner. Feeling a confused mixture of relief and disappointment, she dropped the curtain into place and retreated to her kitchen.

The countertops were spotless. Reid had cleaned up from the feast he’d brought with him—take-out sushi and chocolate-covered strawberries. He’d even rinsed the empty bottle of champagne and disposed of it in her recycle bin on the back step.

Reid was considerate, both out of bed and in, and Sylvie still considered it a small miracle that she’d ever met him. At the very least it had been a fluke. A couple of months ago at her favorite bookstore, she’d noticed him in line ahead of her for a coffee. Later she’d found that he’d never been to the store before in his life, and had only stopped in on impulse.

They’d started chatting and had eventually taken their coffees to a small table where the conversation had continued to flow as if they’d known each other forever.

Of course, she’d noticed he wore a wedding ring, but that first meeting had been so innocent. When he’d asked her to lunch, she’d assumed his intentions were merely friendly. And probably that was all he had been interested in, at first, for them to just be friends.

But for over a month now, they’d been more than friends and she’d never been happier.

Or unhappier.

Strange how opposite emotions could coexist in one body. In truth, the ups and downs were somewhat addictive. They kept her from thinking about her past—her mother’s death, then her own aborted engagement, and the miserable years after.

Sylvie turned off the main floor lights and headed upstairs to her bedroom. Six months ago, on her thirtieth birthday, she’d come into her inheritance from an income-trust on her father’s side of the family. Her first step had been to buy this house, a cute little Victorian on Queen Anne Hill. Then, she’d quit her job, a move that with hindsight had been a mistake. Without the daily interaction with her co-workers at the bank, she’d felt more lonely than ever.

Until Reid.

Sylvie switched the house sound system from CD to radio, then twisted on the taps to her Jacuzzi tub, adding a handful of lavender-scented salts. She dropped her satin robe in a cloth-lined hamper, then disposed of the matching teddy in a similar manner.

Sylvie slipped into the warm bath water. As soon as she turned off the taps she was able to hear again the radio program playing softly.

She always listened to KXPG, but her favorite program, by far, was this late-night show hosted by a radio personality named Georgia. Georgia was new to Seattle, had only been on the air a few months, but already Sylvie was addicted to the eclectic selection of music and the thoughtful musings and opinions of the host.

“Imagine you’re at a table in a Parisian bistro,” Georgia invited her, “sipping wine and thinking of that one person you’ve never been able to forget….”

Sylvie sighed and closed her eyes. The fragrant candles she’d lit for Reid were still burning and the sweet scent added to the quiet mood of the night. Georgia’s question lingered in her mind. Who was the one person she would never forget?

Her ex-fiancé, Wayne? No way. He hadn’t been able to understand the deep depression she’d slid into after her mother’s funeral. Though she’d been mortified when he’d broken their engagement, now she was glad she hadn’t married him.

So was Reid the love of her life, then? But what about his wife? She blanked her mind, as she always did when she hit this particular wall. As Reid said, all that mattered was that they loved each other. Goodness knew, she loved him. And she truly believed that he loved her, too.

If only she could forget about his wife. And the two kids who called him Daddy.

AT FOUR-THIRTY in the morning Jake Jeffrey drove up to the gas station for his shift. Pierce opened the car door and met Jake in the parking lot. Jake was young and eager and listened raptly as Pierce gave him the lowdown on the situation.

Jake eyed the hotel speculatively. “So she spent the entire night in her hotel room? Alone?”

He sounded disappointed.

“Her lights were on for most of the night. But I haven’t seen much movement this past while. Maybe she finally fell asleep.”

“What is she doing in there?” Jake asked.

Pierce handed Jake the video camera, then clapped him on the shoulder. “Don’t fall asleep and maybe you’ll find out.”

He returned to his car, a nondescript brown Nissan. The Nissan was perfect for surveillance jobs like this one—no one ever seemed to notice his vehicle, or remember what it looked like. After starting the engine he headed in the general direction of home—a loft in one of the old warehouses on the eastern shore of Lake Union. His apartment was across the hall from his business address, a handy arrangement that suited him fine. Both places had been decorated with a modern, sparse sensibility. Muted colors, very ergonomic.

Cass would have hated it.

After they were married, they’d bought a town house. She’d decorated it top to bottom with furniture that belonged in another century and lots of area rugs with neatly combed fringes. Her hobby had been needlework and she’d filled their walls with framed samplers and their couch and chairs with stiff pillows that God forbid he should ever put his head on.

He’d never felt comfortable in the two-story town house. But he credited Cass for trying. She’d wanted nothing more than to make him a home.

And look where that had gotten her.

He pressed the fingers of one hand to his temple. He couldn’t think about that now. Best to think of nothing, to feel nothing.

For the third time that night, he raised the volume on the car radio. Then he drove right by the turn that would have taken him home. He kept driving, aimlessly, lost in the sweet nirvana of a passionate woman’s voice on a cold winter night.

“IT WOULDN’T BE Seattle after Midnight if we didn’t play a little Coltrane,” Georgia said.

There were only ten minutes left in her show. Pierce had ended up parking on the shore of Lake Union. Now he wondered why he’d felt the need to seek out water when there was so much of the damn stuff in the air tonight. He’d lived in Seattle almost half his life, but every winter it always seemed like he’d never see the sun again.

“Michael Harper had this to say about John Coltrane. You pick up the horn with some will and blow into the freezing night. That’s what we need tonight, don’t you think? A little tenor love…”

Georgia’s husky voice faded as Coltrane’s saxophone expanded into the nighttime airwaves. A sweet melancholy stole over Pierce, and he wondered, with something bordering awe, how she did it. How did this Georgia woman combine words and music, poetry and her simple stories, in such a way that she made him feel as if he were alive again?

How many other people in Seattle were listening right now? Men and women working the nightshift, insomniacs, the brokenhearted. Did they all feel the way he did—as if Georgia was speaking directly to them, her honeyed voice meant for only their ears?

The song ended and there was a momentary silence before Georgia spoke again. Actually she sighed. “Amazing, isn’t he? I have one more song to end our journey through this night, but first let’s take another caller. Hello, this is Georgia and you’re on Seattle after Midnight.” She paused. “Is anyone there?”

“Georgia?”

“This is Georgia. Who am I speaking to?”

“Um…Jack.”

“Hi, Jack. Did you want to request a song to night?”

“Not really. I just wanted to talk to someone. I listen to you every night. Sometimes I imagine we’re in the same room, like friends or something.”

“That’s sweet. I’m glad you like the show.”

“I love the show. And I liked the songs you played tonight. They’re kind of, well, old…but powerful, too.”

“That’s the magic of the minor key. And I have another for you tonight, Seattle. This collaboration between Billy Joel and Ray Charles will make you wish you had a baby grand in your life.”

Pierce anticipated the song before it began, and when the soulful opening chords reached his ears, he felt again the aching longing that this show seemed to awaken in him.

Slowly he cruised the length of Fairview Avenue, wondering about the guy who’d made that last call. What would incite someone to pick up the phone and to talk to a woman he’d never met—a woman who wouldn’t know him from Adam if she passed him on the street—and tell her things he probably wouldn’t tell his closest friend?