“I made it,” I echo, voice already two octaves too high. “You said anytime, so….”
She gestures me inside but then pauses. “No, wait—weather’s perfect, so let’s use the porch.” She hooks her elbow through mine, gentle but directive, and leads me to the table set just shy of the sun’s reach. The table is dressed in a cotton cloth, blue with tiny white anchors, and there are already two cups, a creamer shaped like a cow, and a glass pitcher of what appears to be hibiscus tea gone opaque with ice.
The centerpiece is a plate of oatmeal raisin cookies, the edges ragged and uneven in a way that assures me they are homemade.
“Sit, please.” She waits until I do, then lowers herself into the opposite chair with a sigh that sounds more relieved than exhausted. “I hope you don’t mind,” she says. “I’m not much of a caffeine drinker anymore. Doctor’s orders. But the cookies are legal.”
“They look amazing.” I am suddenly very aware of my own hands, how they hover indecisively over my lap. I try to relax my shoulders, but the sense of occasion has them fixed in place.
Sara notices, because of course she does. “You’re nervous. Is it the cookies, or the company?”
“Neither,” I say, wishing the porch chair wasn’t so squeaky. “I just…didn’t sleep well last night. Tossed and turned.”
She nods as she pours the tea with her left hand, slow and deliberate. The pitcher shakes, but only a little. A single drop falls onto the cloth, where it beads and rolls toward the edge. When she sets it down, her hand lingers on the rim, as if unsurewhether to let go. “I keep telling myself I can still manage this much. Some days it’s true. Some days it isn’t.”
“It’s a beautiful morning,” I offer, hoping to divert the conversation. “I mean, not that the other mornings aren’t beautiful, but there’s something about today…” My voice trails off as I wave a hand vaguely toward the ocean. “I don’t know.”
“You’re right. There’s a stillness to it today. Like the world is waiting for something wonderful.”
“I like that. The something wonderful part.”
“You would.” She sets her cup down, leans forward, voice conspiratorial. “I saw you come home last night. From the gallery.” She doesn’t say the word, but Nathan hovers like a drawn breath between us. “So, how was it?”
“It was good. Interesting.” I fiddle with the edge of the notebook, trying not to let my gaze stray too far from her face. “Nathan’s work is…different. Not what I expected.”
“Different how?”
I hesitate, trying to find the right phrase. “It’s intimate. Like…he’s teaching you to see the world as he does.” I recall the muted grays and whites of his canvas, as if recalling a dream. “They were somehow calming but also…full of emotion. It’s hard to explain.”
“If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were smitten.”
“Smitten? With what, the art?”
“Perhaps. Or the artist.”
I blink, trying to deflect with a sip of tea, but the heat catches me off guard and I cough a little into my napkin. Sara lets me recover, the silence filling with seagull chatter and the distant percussion of a hammer from some construction down the road.
Finally, I say, “Nathan? He’s… I don’t know. I mean, I barely know him.”
Sara nods, her gaze falling back to the sea. "Just an observation, dear. Sometimes, we don't need to know someone very long for them to make an impression."
I notice a faint smile tug at the corner of her mouth as she watches me. It's a knowing smirk, one that only comes with wisdom and experience. I find myself blushing, suddenly feeling like a teenager. “I guess you’re right,” I say. It’s not really an admission, but it’s not a denial either.
Sara chuckles. “Honey, life’s too short not to appreciate the good impressions. Whether it’s a piece of art, or a piece of ass.” She winks and takes a hearty sip of her tea, pinky finger extended in a way that somehow manages to maintain her elegance.
The teasing bluntness of her comment seems out of character, a sharp contrast to the woman who has always been so composed and gentle around me. Yet, the flash of humor in her eyes seems earnest, and I can’t help but laugh. The sound tumbles out of me, the tension of the encounter breaking away like a wave.
"Is that so?" I ask, recovering my composure.
“Well, it’s not something I’d put on a bumper sticker, but yes, that’s my personal belief.” She reaches for a cookie, breaking it in half with a careful, two-handed maneuver. The cinnamon aroma is so intense I can almost taste it from across the table. “Let me guess, you’re a little scared of having your heart touched again, aren’t you?”
I take another sip of tea to hide my surprise. It’s like Sara has read me better than any book she’s ever picked up. “Maybe. Or maybe I’m just nervous about how to proceed. Honestly, I’m a bit rusty.”
“Want to know a secret?” she says, lowering her voice. “Nathan is probably scared, too. And nervous. Men are alwaysafraid they’ll break those they care about most. Or that they’ll be broken by them.”
I think of the way Nathan held the wineglass at the opening, pinched at the stem like it might shatter. The way he kept his hands busy, always moving. “He seems…” I struggle for the word. “Untamed. Not in a bad way. Just—like he’s still running from something. Or someone.”
Sara’s smile grows soft, maternal. “Aren’t we all?”