Searching by Mitchell Isaac Friedman (best thriller books to read txt) 📕

“Why don’t I pick you up?”

“Great.” She gave me her address. “So, I guess it’s a date.”

Hanging up, I marvelled. I had a date. She called it a date.

After the reading Veronica and I stopped at a coffee shop.

"I have to say," she told me, "I'm impressed. And I don't impress easily. I told you that I don’t like poetry, remember?" I nodded my head. She went on, “But, your work is beautiful.’

"Thank you. Of course, I'm no Blake, Keats, or Coleridge."

"Who," she asked, "are they?" Then at my shocked expression she laughed. "I had to read them in college, but I would probably say that was what turned me off of poetry. But your poems. . . your poems. . . not only were they understandable, they were beautiful, and they showed a touching depth of emotion. That one about the unveiling of your father's gravestone. I couldn’t have kept from crying if I wanted to."

I had gone silent for longer than I thought.

"Did I say something wrong?"

"No," I shook my head, "I was just thinking about I how can't share this with my dad. He and my mom were my greatest supporters. I could always rely on them for honest assessments, and constructive criticism of my writing."

"You're lucky in that. Not everyone has such supportive parents."

I asked her, "What about your parents?"

"Oh, they were great. When Robert chose the goodbye part of my ultimatum, they were there to help me pick up the pieces."

I tried to get her to talk about her relationship with Robert. She wasn’t having it. Every attempt I made was met with a shrug of the shoulder, and a change of subject. I wanted to know everything about this amazing lady--I think I was already becoming aware that I might have met my soul-mate--but I guessed that I had to accept that there were certain parts of her life that were off limits to me.

Something about that evening that told me that Veronica would be the one to make me happier than I could have imagined. Unfortunately, I could not have anticipated the pain that would accompany that happiness.

I said, before, that I had fallen in love with Veronica that night in The Seaside. I am aware that that was just loneliness mixed with a bit of infatuation. Let's face it, I was on the rebound from a marriage that had just ended.

The night of the reading was different. I was looking at things with a slightly clearer head--one not clouded by morose self-pity, and one that could see a friendship developing. I realized that I could not declare love for Veronica yet. After all, although that is what I was feeling, I could not be sure of that, until I could distance myself from my life with Chana.

It was a week after my reading at Quill and Ink Bookmart.

I called Veronica. “Hi, it’s Gene.”

“I know. What’s up?”

“My friend, Jason, is doing a reading of his stuff, at the Quill and Ink. Look, I know you don’t really like poetry, but I was hoping you’d join me.”

“Sure. I’d love to.”

Jason Arnovsky was a lifelong friend--our friendship went all the way back to first grade. In fact, he and his wife, Jeri, were the friends who had introduced me to Chana.  Jeri always felt responsible for the pain that marriage, and divorce, caused me. Jason and I had started a writing group that organized public readings for members. I had introduced Veronica to them at my reading.

I trusted his opinion, on everything, more than anyone else's--except for those of my mom and dad. I knew that, if I asked him, Jason would give me sound advice on my budding relationship with Veronica. I also knew that if I didn't ask him, he would keep his opinion (good or bad) to himself.

At his reading Jason concluded with what he called a prelude to a longer piece--yet to be composed--which would tell a touching story. With Jason's permission, I reprint that poem here:

I had emerged from

that turbulent affair.

I had been left shattered

I was heart-broken.

Then I met HER.

I couldn't help thinking that Jason, in a very subtle way was offering his opinion of Veronica. After all, his marriage--his first and only--was strong. Jeri was a loving and supportive wife and friend. To me she was as much a sister as Jason was a brother. Jason and Jeri were very much in love, and had been since we were in high school. Ergo: he was not writing Soul-Mates about Jeri and him. Jason never actually confirmed--nor did he deny--my assumption that the poem was for Veronica and me.

"Gene," he said, as he laid his hand on my shoulder, "All I'll say right now is that Veronica is beautiful, she's intelligent, and she seems to enjoy your company. Just take it slow for now. Chana burned you badly, don't let it happen again."

"Do you think," I asked, "that's likely to happen with Veronica?"

"Honestly. No." His smile told me more than any words could.

Jeri came up behind Jason, "Hey guys, do you plan on feeding us starving women?"

Jason reached behind him to pull Jeri to his side, "I suppose we could. What do you say, Gene?"

I suggested we go to the same coffee shop that Veronica and I had gone to the previous week.

As we walked to the coffee shop, Veronica and Jeri lagged behind. It was a thinly veiled stratagem, to give Jason and me space to talk freely, and for Jeri to vet Veronica. I’ll jump ahead of myself a bit and say that Jason and Jeri gave Veronica their approval--while still cautioning me to remember that I might still be on the rebound. I didn’t need reminding: I’d made that mistake once, and once was enough.

Anyway, as we walked, Jason probed for details--I suspect that Jeri was doing the same with Veronica.

It was some weeks later that Veronica had gotten the seal of approval from Jason and Jeri. In fact, Jason even predicted--correctly--that Veronica and I would be married by the end of the year. He had gone as far as to say that it would be a good idea.

“Aren’t you the one,” I asked, “who cautioned me to go slow.”

“Yeah,” he replied, “I did. But I didn’t tell you to drag your heels. I’m not saying marry her today, or even tomorrow. But, whatever you do, don’t allow yourself to lose her.”

“I don’t intend to. But, after Chana, I’m not sure--at least not right now--that I even want to get married again.”

“And, that’s why I think you should take it slow. Besides, you told me that you guys met when both of you were on the rebound. She might be a little skittish about marriage too. You need to take a bit more time to really get to know each other. But I wouldn’t be surprised if you two were married by the end of the year.”

To make a long story a little less long (not actually short), I moved in with Veronica about three months after we met, and we lived together for another three months before we got married.

It was a simple affair in the Rabbi’s study, with just us, the Rabbi, Jason, and Jeri. Veronica’s mom and dad made us a small party that night, and then we headed to Virginia Beach for our honeymoon.

Fast forward two years. After three failed attempts, Veronica finally got pregnant. On April 23, 1985, our daughter, Aviva, was born. As I looked down on my daughter, my miracle, in her bassinet, my heart filled to bursting. Veronica--my soul-mate--had given me a gift (actually two gifts) that exceeded all the blessings I could ever hope for. She gave me her love, and our beautiful daughter.

Life couldn’t get any better--or so I thought.

Four years later life did get better; our son, Michael, was born.

My heart was beyond full; I could not possibly want more. Life was perfect--until. . . .

Sometime after Aviva and Michael were born it seemed that our blissful life was going sour. Don’t get me wrong, we still loved each other. Divorce was never on the table, but. . . .

It seemed we were drifting apart. At least, I sensed that there was a distance growing between us.

From that first time she accompanied me to my reading, I felt that I could talk openly with her. I could share my views on everything: politics, literature, even sex. She would engage, even though these were not topics that interested her. I found it easy to talk with her. And that was the thing: where to Chana, I talked with Veronica--even though my interests were not always hers. She responded. There was communication.

Then, at some point the communication seemed to stop. I would attempt conversations, and her responses seemed distant and hollow. I was talking in a vacuum. I was talking at her. Suddenly, it seemed, I had to work hard at the simplest conversations.

Around this time, she seemed to become increasingly reluctant to read anything I wrote.

This lady, who attended all poetry reading with me—both mine and those and other members of the group—even though she did not share my love of literature and poetry--suddenly had no interest in reading my work and offering her comments.

It had become harder for me to get her feedback on anything I wrote. Whenever I questioned her for a reason, her response was, “I’m not a writer. I don’t know how to critique this.”

“I don’t want another writer’s critique,” I would say, “I can get that from the group. I want the opinion of a reader.”

“You know I don’t even like poetry. I don’t know what to say about your work.”

For some reason, this, then, lead to an argument—I might even say that it would lead to a fight. We were arguing and fighting a lot

All I had to do was ask if she was okay, and that led to a fight.

I still loved Veronica—I was incapable of not loving her. And, I never doubted that she still loved me. But. . . .

Something had soured, and I could never get at the source. When I questioned her, she would tell me nothing was wrong, and yet I sensed that something definitely was wrong. It was the tone of voice that I perceived. It was the arms crossed over her chest as she sat watching television.

Eventually, I found myself becoming more and more morose, sullen, and withdrawn. Eventually, I stopped trying to make conversation. I found myself getting increasingly moody with her and the kids. I found myself getting aggravated at insignificant annoyances. I took offense at little teasing jokes. In short, I found myself becoming the person I did not want to be. I feared I was turning into the me who had been married to Chana.

I would sit at the opposite side of the sofa, with my tablet, reading, while she watched television with Aviva and Michael. Or I would spend the evening at my computer—usually staring at a blank screen.

I had lapsed into an intense case of writer’s block, which exacerbated my foul temperament. The smallest provocation was sending me into uncontrollable rages. And, worst of all, I found myself screaming at the ones I loved most in this world—Veronica, Aviva, Michael—and blaming them for everything that would go wrong for me, from my writer’s block to our internet connection failing, just as an idea for a poem or story coalesced in my mind, preventing me from getting it down. I even found myself blaming them if I could not find the pen and paper that was sitting right beside me on my desk, waiting for me to start working old school.

Then things really came to head. . . .

I had finally broken through my block and had been writing what promised to be the anchor piece in a collection of poems that would tell stories. As might be expected, our network kicked out on me—just as I sat down and was prepared to start writing. However, I had my