Secrets Revealed Pt. III

Part III – The Truth

Tim and Fran woke up on Saturday morning. Tim wanted to play some more, taking advantage of a night in a hotel without Laura, but Fran had butterflies in her stomach. She had an appointment to face her worst fears.

They tried to have breakfast at the Polo Grille inside the hotel but Fran ended up only with a cup of coffee. Tim managed to eat a little more but he was also nervous. He was torn—he was meeting with the woman he had loved, the woman who had let him go so he could fall in love with his wife. Though he wouldn't admit it, he was as nervous as Fran was.

They left the restaurant, their shoes making a hollow sound on the marble floor. Tim held tightly onto Fran's hand as they walked to the parking garage for the ten minute drive. Leaving the garage, they drove on South Ludlow to Highway 35. There was almost no traffic on that Saturday morning so they quickly passed the big park and found the street where Patrice lived. Turning left, Tim started looking for house numbers.

"That one," Fran said, pointing to the fourth house. "4526, see?" she said.

"But the one right before it is 4520. Are you sure?"

"Look at the mailbox," Fran said.

Tim saw what she was pointing to and pulled into the driveway. With the garage door closed they couldn't tell if anyone was home. He turned off the engine, still looking out the windshield. His thoughts were of a summer long ago, of a face he hadn't seen in many years. The touch of his wife's hand stirred him.

"Let's go," she said, her voice quavering.

"What are you going to say to her?" he asked.

"I'm not sure. I'm sorry?" she answered.

As Fran got out of the van, she noticed an older man in the yard next door, wearing a straw hat. He was kneeling on a pad, the same green color as the grass, and pulling weeds from a flowerbed. He looked over, studying the arrivals. Fran smiled and waved. He waved back but kept studying the strangers without smiling.

Fran walked around to where Tim was waiting. Taking a deep breath, she grabbed his hand and they walked up to the front door of the red brick house. Tim looked at the bricks and was reminded of another building at a small airport in Louisiana.

The couple stood at the door, each taking comfort in the other's touch. Fran reached for the doorbell, but her finger paused just over the button. She had a last thought that she was about to finally get answers, finally be completely freed of her guilt. She pushed the button in. A bell could be heard faintly ringing inside the house. Her heart was pounding as she waited. She was so grateful that Tim was there with her. After a minute, she turned to her husband.

"Maybe she's not here," she said.

"There was no guarantee she would be. We should have called."

Fran had come this far and she wasn't going to give up. She rang the bell a second time.

Tim looked to the yard next door and saw that the man in the straw hat was still watching them.

"The Neighborhood Watch is out in full force this morning," he joked.

Any response Fran was thinking of making was cut off as the sound of the lock turning caught their attention. There was a click and the handle turned. The door opened with just a faint squeak. A pleasant looking brunette stood in the doorway. She looked at Fran, a polite but noncommittal smile on her face. Then she looked over Fran's shoulder to the man standing behind her.

Recognition flooded across her face. She looked at Tim, feelings from long ago gripping her heart. Her lips parted slightly and she drew in a breath, feeling an ache in her chest. Her mouth formed the sounds but the wordTim didn't quite escape her lips. She looked again at Fran, now realizing who she was.

"Fran?" she asked in disbelief. "Fran, is it really you?"

Fran couldn't speak, her heart pounding in her chest. She just nodded.

"How did you find... I mean, where, oh, what are you doing here?" Patrice stammered. She stood there, staring at her two visitors in disbelief. Finally realizing this was actually happening, she invited them in.

Fran and Tim stepped through the door, entering a nicely decorated living room. Artwork graced the walls. The furnishings revealed that no children lived there.

Patrice directed her guests to the sofa with her hand before taking a seat in the chair opposite. The three of them just looked at each other for a few minutes, the shock of the moment keeping them spellbound. A clock ticked in the distance, marking the passage of time.

Patrice's eyes diverted to Fran's left hand for confirmation before breaking the silence.

Waving her hand at them, "You two are married, right?" she asked.

"Yes, we are," Fran said, taking Tim's hand and gripping it tightly in a sweaty hold. "We have a daughter and we live in south Texas."

"That's a long drive. Are you here on vacation?"

"No, actually," Fran explained, "we came here hoping to find you." The tension gripped Fran's stomach and she was glad at that moment she hadn't tried to eat breakfast.

Patrice's right hand idly played with the fabric of the armrest as she tried to keep her voice steady. "A daughter? That's nice."

"Patrice, I wanted to say... I need to tell you... I mean, I never got to, but I tried..." Fran tried to say but the sentences wouldn't form in her mind. She had too much to say and didn't know how to say it. She silently wished that she had rehearsed a speech beforehand. There was only one way to say it and she knew that. Tim felt her hand grip his tighter, almost painfully.

"I'm sorry," she said as tears started to finally flow down her cheeks. "I'm so very sorry."

Tim pulled free of her grasp and put his arm around his wife to comfort her. He didn't notice that Patrice stiffened slightly as he did that.

"Sorry for what?" Patrice asked. She knew what she should do. She had talked about it. Could she do it?

She gathered her courage, remembering the words of encouragement, and stood. She walked to Fran and sat next to her on the sofa. She reached out and touched Fran's cheek, a touch that spanned too many years. She could feel the wetness of the tears. She hadn't heard Fran cry in so long.

Patrice swallowed hard before speaking. "Fran, you don't have anything to be sorry about."

"Yes, I do," Fran said through the tears. "I took Tim away from you, and I didn't regret it one bit." She was crying full force now, the pent up guilt and fear cascading out of her and washing her soul.

"We talked about this, back then. We came to a decision." Patrice's words were almost cold, unfeeling.

"I kept my promise. I never told him, until a few weeks ago. I just couldn't do it. I couldn't keep it from him any longer," Fran sobbed.

Patrice looked around Fran to meet Tim's eyes. She didn't see in there what she hoped to see, what she had seen in there the last time she looked into those eyes. The love wasn't there anymore. He felt love, she was sure of that—Tim had such a great capacity for love—but that love was for someone else now. For Fran.

Patrice wanted to say so much, but she couldn't bring herself to say the words. So much had changed, had happened, over the intervening years. She trembled as the memories of the years passed through her mind, a parade of images. She was starting to cry now, too. She put her arms around Fran and remembered a time long ago in a dorm room.

She looked to Tim once more. "Tim, there is a box of Kleenex in the next room, on the table. Would you get it, please?"

Tim nodded and got up. Patrice followed him with her eyes until he rounded the corner.

"Fran, how much did you tell him?" she asked her friend in a whisper. "What does he know?"

"He knows that we were both dating him, that you let me have him."

"Are you two happy? Really happy with each other?" Patrice asked, almost desperately.

"Yes, we are. We are so much in love. I just had to come here to tell you how sorry I am."

Tim found the box on a table, next to a pen and a closed notebook. It was one of those nicely bound blank books, like a diary. He was tempted to look inside but stopped himself. Patrice wasn't part of his life anymore. He did seize the opportunity to look around the room though. A bookshelf caught his eye. There were many books on self help taking up an entire shelf. Realizing he was going to be missed, he picked up the box of Kleenex and headed back to the living room.

Patrice heard him coming and whispered one last thing to Fran. "Love him. That will make up for it." Then, composing herself and turning to Tim, she took the offered box and smiled a wan smile. "Thanks," she told him. She pulled a few sheets out and offered them to Fran, then took a few for herself.

The two women sat back and dabbed at their faces.

"This must seem so foolish to you, Tim," Patrice said.

Tim was lost in memories, remembering that summer long ago. When he realized Patrice was talking to him, he said, "I'm sorry, what did you say?"

Patrice's smile broadened. "I was saying that the way we are acting must seem so silly to you."

Tim thought about what she had said. He was surprised that he still felt so much for Patrice, in spite of what had happened. He never doubted his love for his wife, that was supreme, but he still had a tender spot in his heart for Patrice. He knew he always would.

"Not at all. I know you two had a special friendship that ended abruptly, because of me. I'm glad you got to get together again. I'm sorry we barged in like this."

"I was afraid you wouldn't want to see us if I called first," Fran said, still dabbing at tears.

"Nonsense. I'm glad you came. I've spent so much time wondering whatever happened to you. You don't know how it makes me feel to see how you turned out. Seeing you two together, so in love, it makes it all worth—" and her voice faltered.

Fran reached out and hugged Patrice. It was partly in thanks, partly in apology. Tim looked on uneasily, fully aware that this whole scene was because of him. Patrice was in control of the situation and knew it.

"What finally sparked the revelation?" she asked Fran.

It was Tim who answered. "We were on a trip and passed Camp Kisatchie. I wanted to stop and look around. I didn't realize what I was doing to Fran by bringing her there."

"It's still there, after all these years?" Patrice asked, surprised.

"The place is still there, but it looks abandoned. It's not open anymore, but walking the grounds sure brought back a lot of old memories," Tim said, the ghost of an old smile on his face.

"I'm sure it did," Patrice said. "That summer I spent there was very special to me."

Fran listened, especially to the tone in her husband's voice. She had never heard him speak that way about someone else before. She knew he had been in love with Patrice. They had shared many discussions about the summer of 1982 since that day at her parents' farm. Hearing Tim and Patrice talk about it, though, made it so much more vivid.

"That was so long ago, so much has changed in our lives since then," Tim said.

"Yes," Patrice said, her eyes darting to the rings on Fran's finger, "so many changes."

They reminisced, about that summer and that fall. Patrice didn't offer much about her own life, she kept them talking about how things had turned out for the two of them. Patrice wanted to help them feel that things had turned out for the best. She wanted them to remember her that way.

Three hours had passed when the visit finally came to an end. Fran felt relieved of her guilt. Tim realized he no longer loved Patrice. He loved Fran and there was absolutely no doubt about that. Each of them gained something from the visit, something each needed. As they rose to leave, they promised to stay in touch, a promise Patrice doubted they'd keep. They all had their own lives now.

Patrice gave Fran a final hug and a kiss on the cheek. They stood there, the three of them, in front of the sofa, looking awkwardly at each other. Finally, Fran broke the silence.

"Go ahead, you two. It's okay." Then, "Tim, kiss her."

Tim looked to Patrice, looked into her eyes. Seeing something there, a dying ember perhaps, he stepped past his wife, the love of his life, and gently—almost hesitantly—put his arms around Patrice. The memories came flooding back. For an instant, it was 1982 all over again. Just for a moment.

He pulled her to him and hugged her tightly. Patrice drew in a deep shuddering breath as she felt Tim's arms around her once more. She almost said something she shouldn't. As they hugged, Tim whispered, "Thank you, Patrice. I'll always treasure that summer in my heart."

Patrice had to bite her lip to keep from moaning as the sensations overwhelmed her. She knew what she had to do but it was so difficult. In a way she wanted that moment to last forever and in another way she just wanted it to be over and for them to leave.

Then Tim looked into Patrice's eyes. He remembered a last kiss on a late summer day so long ago and... kissed her again. The kiss took Patrice by surprise. She had difficulty separating today from yesterday. She was in Tim's arms, but those arms belonged to another woman now. It took a Herculean effort not to moan into Tim's closed lips, not to open her mouth to him. She fought and won.

Tim released her and looked into her eyes, her lips still slightly moist from the kiss. There were still feelings for her, but they were in his past. He had no doubts who he really loved. He was glad he had chanced that. He had confronted his own fears that day.

Tim blinked and turned to his wife. Fran was smiling faintly, happy for them. Happy that they had shared one more kiss. She had no doubts that her husband loved only her. She was so proud of herself for giving him that moment.

Patrice showed them to the door and they left. She closed the door, turned and slumped against it, and cried.

Outside, Fran noticed as she opened her door that the man was no longer there tending to his garden. The midday heat must be too much for him.

Fran felt like her relationship with Tim was even stronger now. They had faced Patrice together and 1982 was no longer something that divided them, but rather what brought them together. As Tim turned the key, Fran put her hand on his arm. It was a loving touch, a symbol of a bond. They drove off and back into their own lives.

* * * * *

Benjamin leaned back in his chair, looked at the clock on the wall for the third time, and sighed. His five o'clock was late again. It wasn't until ten minutes after the hour that his phone buzzed. Marie's voice broke in to tell him that she had finally arrived.

"Thanks, Marie. You can go. I'll lock up," he told her, knowing she would be grateful for not having to stay any later.

As the door handle started to turn, he stood to meet his patient. He was about to gently berate her for again being late when he saw the look on her face.

"Patrice, what happened?" he asked, his compassion taking over the other emotion.

"Oh, Ben, they showed up," Patrice said, starting to tear up.

Benjamin gently directed her to the love seat and she sat next to the end table, automatically grabbing a handful of tissues from the box. He sat in the upholstered chair that faced her, a folder in his hand.

"Who showed up?" he asked, taking a pen from his pocket.

"They came to see me, Tim and ... and her."

"Tim?"

The name seemed familiar to Benjamin. He leafed through Patrice's folder, notes of her therapy sessions, looking for the name.

"We talked about him last week, at the end," Patrice prompted.

Benjamin found the name in the entry he had made the week before. He scanned his notes as Patrice rambled on. He let her talk, knowing it was good for her to refresh her memories right before they discussed them.

"We were going back through all of my relationships to try to see why they kept failing. Tim was my first, you know, to take me. He was 1982, the summer camp.

Benjamin, nodding, skimming the notes. They had been working backwards over the last few months. At the end of last Monday's session, she was beginning to tell about her affair over the summer of 1982. She had given her virginity to another counselor at the camp. The relationship had ended strangely in the fall. Patrice was just about to start explaining why when time ran out.

"Yes, Tim. Camp Kisatchie. You were telling me about how you developed a sexual relationship with him. Why don't you continue?" Benjamin prompted.

"Well, you know I slept with him. He was my first, and he was wonderful. He cared for me, we were in love with each other, and he was so handsome. I had never felt ready to give that up for any other boyfriend. With Tim, I felt like I couldn't wait to do it with him."

Patrice paused for a moment to collect her thoughts.

"My roommate at the camp, we became close friends—the three of us—had a messy breakup with her boyfriend over the summer while we were there. Tim and I helped her through that time. As the summer came to an end, he and I talked about keeping things going, you know, in the fall. I was going to school in Arkansas, and Tim was in school in Louisiana.

"When I got back to school, my roommate had transferred so I ended up with someone else. Her name was Fran and we bonded really well. She had never had a boyfriend before so she hung on my every word as I told her about Tim."

Patrice paused, as if unsure whether to talk about the next part.

"Go on, you can tell me about it," Benjamin prompted.

Patrice looked at the door, to reassure herself it was locked.

"She wanted to hear about everything, even the sexual parts," Patrice said, blushing a little. "We decided that it would be innocent enough if we didn't use names. She wouldn't know who he really was that way, so I told her everything. I can't believe howintimate the details were, but it was strangely satisfying to be able to share that with someone. Without using his name, it was anonymous somehow. We just referred to Tim ashim. After a few weeks, Fran knew Tim almost as well as I did. I got letters from Tim and even called him a few times. I could tell that things weren't as, uh, passionate as they had been over the summer. The distance was wearing on us."

Patrice gripped the Kleenex a little tighter, a gesture that Benjamin noticed out of the corner of his eye.

"I knew we were drifting apart and I didn't know what to do about it. Fran was hanging on my every word so I invented some of the later details. I couldn't tell her the truth."

Patrice sniffled as she got to the more emotional point of her tale.

"Then, there was this competition at a school in Lafayette, that's south Louisiana, and Fran had to go. She left on a Thursday and didn't get back until Tuesday. When she came back, it was like she was a different woman.

"She glowed and jabbered on about this guy she had met. She was so excited to finally have a guy to talk about. We kept the rules the same—no names—and she told me all the sordid details. In her I saw myself as I had been when I first met Tim, when we first started sleeping together."

Patrice sniffled before continuing. Benjamin watched her intently, looking for clues in her body language.

"She raved on and on about her guy. Then, one day, I came back from class and she was even more excited than before. I asked her what was going on and she just pointed to the desk. There was a framed picture of her guy that had just come in the mail."

Patrice stopped to wipe away a few tears. Benjamin waited patiently for her to continue.

"It washim."

When Benjamin's confused expression showed he didn't understand, she continued.

"It washim. It wasTim."

She looked up to check Benjamin's reaction. It was as shocked as she expected, as she had been when it happened.

"We were seeing the same guy."