CHAPTER 27 - WHAT IN THE HELL AM I DOING HERE?

            It was Friday afternoon, and I was traveling down I-45 toward Conroe, Texas. My fingers were cramped and stiff from gripping the steering wheel too tightly. I'd lost count of the number of times I'd talked myself out of turning around and heading back to Fort Worth, and I actually had turned around more than once. A trip, which usually took less than four hours, had now stretched past five, and I had only just made it as far as Huntsville. This was either going to be the smartest thing I'd ever done in my life or the mother of all mistakes.

            Off to the left I caught sight of one of Huntsville's more recent claims to fame, a gleaming white statue of Sam Houston, soaring almost 80 feet into the Texas sky. We Texans have a reputation for being larger than life, but that silly thing was huge! He seemed to have stridden right out of the pine forest wearing a frock coat and carrying his cane. In such sartorial splendor, he looked more like P. T. Barnum than the rugged individualist who'd led the charge at San Jacinto with the battle cry of, "Remember the Alamo!" One of the more colorful characters in Texas history, and there was no shortage of colorful characters in Texas history, I recalled that Houston had lived with the Cherokee Indians in his youth and they had given him the nickname, Big Drunk. Biographers and historians agreed that the appellation was well deserved.

            I was roused from my ruminations by a highway sign informing me that I was leaving Huntsville and approaching the town of Willis. For good or ill, I was about half an hour away from my destination now. I tried to concentrate on the scenery - anything to keep from thinking about what awaited me at the end of my journey. Though it was still a bit too early in the season for bluebonnets, the state flower, Huntsville did mark the beginning of the national forests collectively known as the Piney Woods. The tall pine trees that now lined the highway lifted my spirits as they filled the air with their pungent tang.

            I hadn't traveled this road in over a decade, not since I'd had friends among the performers in the Texas Renaissance Festival held every October near a little town further down the road called, serendipitously enough, Magnolia. I smiled at the memory of Michael's nickname for me. Chalk it up to my weakness for musicians and other artistic types, but I'd spent more than a few weekends wearing funny clothes, drinking mead - a wine made from honey - and cavorting among those stately pines. For some strange reason, drinking mead always gave me the urge to cavort. I realized suddenly that Michael had probably already begun teaching at MMU during those years, and it boggled my mind to imagine that I had been so close to him without ever knowing it.

            Conroe was only ten miles away, now. I reached into the tote bag on the seat beside me and pulled out the directions to the college with its map of the campus. I glanced at the clock on the dashboard. It was a quarter to four, and Michael's last class ended at 4:30. My original plan had been to surprise - or maybe confront - him as he left for the day. I'd intended to check into the hotel and freshen up before our meeting, but my life has never gone according to plan. So, I improvised with a quick spritz-and-fluff in the ladies room at the corner Texaco before my fateful rendezvous.

            Staring at my reflection in a spotty mirror under the harsh florescent lights of a convenience store restroom, it was sadly obvious that I was a long way from the 16-year-old that Michael might - or might not - remember. There were gray hairs among the strands of honey brown and lines on the face. Like the old joke, I still had everything I'd had when I was 18, except now it was a lot lower. Yep, Father Time had definitely kicked me in the butt when I wasn't looking.

            I had always cherished a certain amount of disdain for those women, like my mother, who tried to deny the passage of time with vats of cream and pots of paint. But here I was, staring at my forty-six year old reflection and anticipating a reunion with someone who hadn't seen me since I was sweet sixteen. At this particular moment, I might have sold my soul for a face-lift and some liposuction. Since it was too late for an extreme makeover, I squared my shoulders and pressed onward.

            I pulled into the faculty and visitor's parking area at 4:15 and parked three spaces away from Michael's convertible. His car was easy to spot. That classic body style was distinctive in a parking lot that inclined more toward Lexus, Beemer and Benz, all cars that appeared to have been stamped out with the same unimaginative cookie cutter. Next to those other assorted yuppie-mobiles, my four-year-old Chevy Malibu looked as out of place as a bastard at the family reunion.

            I turned off the ignition and sat back to take in my surroundings. Montgomery Methodist University, with its Gothic architecture looked like a medieval manor house nestled in a pine grove. A wide, tree-lined walkway led to the entrance of Graham Hall, no doubt named for some illustrious and generous alumnus. According to my downloaded map, this imposing edifice looming before me was the location of the English Department and my destination.

            I got out of the car and stood on unsteady legs as I took a look around. It was an unseasonably mild afternoon, and there was no shortage of students dotting the rolling lawn. Some were on their way to or from classes, burdened with books and overloaded backpacks. Thanks to which, the chiropractors of the future would probably do a thriving business. Some were studying while others were socializing and enjoying the spring-like weather. My goodness, they're just children, I thought as I looked around me. I became suddenly and acutely aware that the first blushes of my own youth had long ago given way to the hot flashes of middle age.

            To say that I was nervous was an understatement of astronomical proportions. I brushed imaginary lint from my jacket and fretted about my appearance. I had dressed for travel in blue jeans and boots with a red turtleneck sweater and a black blazer, so I know that I didn't look as rumpled and road weary as I felt. Judging from the student body, however, I was overdressed for the occasion. I saw baggy britches and bare bellybuttons everywhere I looked. Why in the pluperfect heck, I wondered to myself, do the youth of today insist on dressing like the homeless? Surely, they don't actually think those freakish costumes are attractive. That question had no sooner crossed my mind than another followed closely on its heels as I covered my face in amused embarrassment. And, when did I become as judgmental as my mother?

            Jamming my hands in deep into my pockets, I began my apprehensive progress toward the unknown. In the distance I thought I heard the steady thump of some teenager's stereo with the bass turned up to the maximum. Then, I realized that it was merely the muffled pounding of my own heart. My palms were damp, but my mouth felt as though I'd swallowed a bale of cotton. I was breathing heavily, my knees were trembling, and I felt suddenly lightheaded. I'd only taken a few steps toward the building, but I sank down on one of the benches interspersing the trees that lined the main walkway. I had never fainted before in my life, but it seemed like a genuine possibility.

            What in the hell am I doing here? I had no idea. And, if I didn't know, what would I tell Michael when he asked the same question, as he was surely bound to do? He would undoubtedly phrase it more politely, but he would certainly be curious to know why someone from his past would suddenly show up after almost 30 years. I had planned to offer some vague excuse about passing through town on business, and deciding to look up an old friend. It was a blatantly transparent fiction, but the Michael I remembered was too gracious a gentleman to call me a liar.

            A young man with a bulging backpack and multiple piercings chose that moment to whiz by on a pair of rollerblades. His helmet, elbow- and kneepads made him resemble an outlandish, wheeled insect with a high-impact plastic exoskeleton. I, on the other hand, must have looked decidedly awful because he circled back. "Are you okay, ma'am?" he asked. "You look sorta pale."

            I don't know what was worse, being called ma'am by someone not much out of his teens, the fact that he meant it sincerely, or the fact that it was true. "Oh, I'm fine, thanks," I respond, willing it to be so in spite of the way I felt.

            "If you're sure, then," he said with a skeptical look and rolled away.

            I watched his retreating figure. The last thing I needed today of all days was to be ma'amed by someone to whom I could have given birth. I had no business being here. This whole thing was a mistake, as I had always known but refused to admit. Well, no one else will ever have to know. I rose from the bench and was at the point of taking the first step toward my car, when I saw movement out of the corner of my eye. It was Michael, of course, sauntering down the steps of Graham Hall. I rolled my eyes heavenward. The universe was having way too much fun at my expense.

            My first impulse was still to flee. After all, he probably wouldn't even notice me because I had to be the last person he would expect to see. But, I stood rooted to the spot, unable to move or take my eyes off of him. Pictures on a web page were no substitute for the real thing. He was even more handsome than I expected. He had aged, of course. We both had, after all, but even though he might no longer be the 25 year old hunk that I'd known as a teenager, he still possessed an undeniable attractiveness.

            Perhaps it was his dignified self-possession that I found so compelling. On the other hand, maybe it was just the fact that he was dressed up. I had never seen Michael wearing anything more formal than freshly pressed Levi's. On this particular occasion he was dressed in a black wool suit with a white dress shirt and burgundy tie, and the overall effect was breathtaking. With his leather briefcase in hand, he could easily have passed for a lawyer or some other Wall Street type. I felt out of my depth and I wanted to hide, but all I could do was watch him approach.

            He was almost even with me, when he must have felt me staring at him. He looked in my direction and our eyes met. For the briefest fraction of a second, his expression was blank. He offered a smile and nod as he started to pass me, a pleasant and non-committal acknowledgement such as one might give to a stranger whose gaze one meets upon the street. Then I saw the flicker of recognition, and he halted dead in his paces, staring with his mouth agape. In the space of a heartbeat, his face reflected a shifting kaleidoscope of emotions. Bewildered surprise and disbelief gave way to unashamed, if slightly cautious joy. "Magnolia?" he whispered. It was a question, a plea, a prayer and the most tender of endearments in a single murmured breath.

            I managed a slight affirmative nod, and in an instant he had closed the space between us in a single step. He set his briefcase on the bench that I had just vacated and gathered me into his arms. Whatever lingering shyness and uncertainty I might have felt was quickly lost in the warmth of his embrace. The intervening years rolled away and the passage of time between us of held little consequence. This was no stranger. Whatever else might have happened in both our lives, this was still Michael, and he was still my friend.

            He held me tightly for a long moment, as though he couldn't bring himself to let me go, and I yielded happily to his touch. If my heart had chosen that moment to stop beating, being in his arms once again would have been enough. At last he held me out at arm's length and looked at me. "I can't believe it's really you," he said as he shook his head in amazement. "What in the world are you doing here?"

            I looked up into his kind eyes and every lame excuse died on my lips. From the moment I'd met this man, I had been able to trust him with my honor and my life. I could certainly trust him with the truth. "I was looking for you," I confessed. "I wanted to see you again." There. I'd said it. Now, it was up to him.

            He stood there gazing into my eyes for a moment in silence as I held my breath. Then, the corner of his mouth lifted slightly in that wistful little half-smile that I remembered so well. He cupped my face in his hands and leaned down, brushing my lips lightly with his in a kiss as tender and sweet as our first.

To be continued . . .