Six Years Read Online Free PDF Page A

asked me.
    “No,” I said.
    She put a hand on my forearm. “You look like you could use a drink.”
    It was hard to argue with that. I half stumbled behind her toward the bar and half collapsed onto the same stool as before. She poured me another scotch. I kept my eyes on the procession, on the chapel door, on the little town square.
    No Natalie.
    “My name is Tess, by the way.”
    “Jake,” I said.
    “So how did you know Dr. Sanderson?”
    “We went to the same college.”
    “Really?”
    “Yes. Why?”
    “You look younger.”
    “I am. It was an alumni connection.”
    “Oh, okay, that makes sense.”
    “Tess?”
    “Yes?”
    “Do you know Dr. Sanderson’s family at all?”
    “His son, Eric, used to date my niece. Good kid.”
    “How old is he?”
    “Sixteen, maybe seventeen. Such a tragedy. He and his father were so close.”
    I didn’t know how to broach the subject so I just asked: “Do you know Dr. Sanderson’s wife?”
    Tess cocked her head. “You don’t?”
    “No,” I lied. “I never met her. We just knew each other through a few college events. He’d come alone.”
    “You seem awfully emotional for a guy who only knew him through a few college events.”
    I didn’t know how to answer that one, so I stalled by taking a deep sip. Then I said, “It’s just that, well, I didn’t see her at the funeral.”
    “How would you know?”
    “What?”
    “You just said you never met her. How would you know?”
    Man, I was really not good at this, was I? “I’ve seen photographs.”
    “They must not have been good ones.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “She was right there. Came out right after the coffin with Katie.”
    “Katie?”
    “Their daughter. Eric was one of the pallbearers. Then Dr. Sanderson’s brother came out with Katie and Delia.”
    I remembered them, of course. “Delia?”
    “Dr. Sanderson’s wife.”
    My head started spinning. “I thought her name was Natalie.”
    She crossed her arms and frowned at me. “Natalie? No. Her name is Delia. She and Dr. Sanderson were high school sweethearts. Grew up right down the road here. They’ve been married for ages.”
    I just stared at her.
    “Jake?”
    “What?” I said.
    “Are you sure you’re even at the right funeral?”

Chapter 4
    I headed back to the airport and took the next flight home. What else could I do? I guess I could have approached the grieving widow graveside and asked her why her dearly departed husband married the love of my life six years ago, but just then, that felt somewhat inappropriate. I’m sensitive like that.
    So with a nonrefundable ticket on a professor’s salary, plus classes tomorrow and students to see, I reluctantly ducked into one of those “express” jets that are too small for guys my size, folding my legs up so that my knees felt as though they were under my chin, and flew back to Lanford. I live in personality-imperiled campus housing made of washed-out brick. The décor might generously be dubbed “functional.” It was clean and comfortable, I guess, with one of those couch-loveseat combos you see advertised in highway stores for $699. The overall effect is, I think, more apathetic than downright bad, but that also may just be what I tell myself. The small kitchen had a microwave and toaster oven—it had a real oven too, but I don’t think I’ve ever used it—and the dishwasher breaks a lot. As you may have guessed, I don’t entertain here too often.
    This is not to say that I don’t date or even have meaningful relationships. I do, though most of these relationships carry a three-month expiration date. Some might find insight in the fact that Natalie and I lasted a little over three months, but I wouldn’t be one of them. No, I don’t live in heartache. I don’t cry myself to sleep or any of that. I am, I tell myself, over it. But I do feel a void, icky as that sounds. And—like it or not—I still think about her every single day.
    Now what?
    The man who had married the