“Yes. Thank you for helping earlier. He just had a funny turn, I think,” she said. Her throat felt suddenly dry, so she took a swig of the Coke she was holding. She felt torn because she wanted to talk to him, but she really didn’t want him asking about Rob.
“All that dairy,” John said, giving her a sideways glance.
“Right,” she said, watching his expression closely. “John, you don’t know anything about the Imp, do you?”
“The Lincoln mascot? Sure. Why?” John asked, but now Lorna was clapping to get everyone’s attention so she could explain the rules. Everyone knew the rules, but Lorna liked the sound of her own voice.
Chloe jogged over to second base and felt a flicker of relief when she saw John follow her, taking up position nearby between first and second. He was close enough to talk to. Shecrossed her arms loosely, then uncrossed them a second later, not sure where to put them.
“Thanks again for my stick,” she said.
“Oh, that was all Richard,” he said. They both looked back at the picnic rug, where Richard was sprawled out with his paws in the air while Amara rubbed his belly.
“He’s a great dog,” Chloe said.
“Not a good cat though,” he said, then winced at his own joke, rubbing the stubble on his chin with a knuckle.
“What did you do this afternoon?” she asked, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear.
“I went to the Ashmolean,” he said.
“Oh, I love the Ashmolean,” she said, imagining him sitting in front of a work of art, pointing out details to Richard, who would cock his head in appreciation.
“A lot of the paintings there have a musical association for me,” John explained.
“How come?” she asked.
“I could sit at a piano and think of nothing and then I’d sit in front of a painting and the melody would announce itself.”
“Do you think that works for writing too?” Chloe asked.
“I imagine so,” he said, then paused, stretching his elbows above him, as though limbering up. His shirt came untucked from his jeans, and she saw a flash of taut, pale skin and a soft trail of hair disappearing beneath his waistband.
Chloe’s eyes flicked to it before she could stop herself—then just as quickly, she looked away, heat rising unhelpfully to her cheeks. She twisted the toe of her shoe back and forth on the ground, pretending to study the grass.
“I went to the National Gallery of Ireland with my mumonce, she wanted to see some exhibition on butter making,” he told her. He had a storyteller’s voice, calm and deep. She wanted to block out the noise of Lorna barking instructions and just listen to him. “Anyway, while we were there, we saw them putting away this painting. I’d never even heard of it before, it’s calledThe Meeting on the Turret Stairs. It shows the final meeting between doomed lovers from a Danish ballad. But the paper it’s painted on is sensitive to light, so they can only display it for an hour at a time on certain days.” He shook his head and smiled, eyes alight with the memory. “We’d just missed it, but now I had to see it. I ended up extending my trip, staying in Ireland two more days, just so I could.”
“Was it worth it?” she asked, intrigued.
“Yes, it’s beautiful. And anticipation is everything,” he said, and now, when their eyes met, she felt that dart of energy pass between them, sharp and surprising, like catching a live wire. He looked away first, breaking the moment. There was a rare quality about John; the world could stop and start again, and he would still be the same steady force at the center of it all.
“Sorry,” he said, slowly blinking, then shaking his head. “What was I talking about before I went off on a tangent?”
“Art inspiring your music,” she prompted.
“Right.” He smiled, almost apologetic. “I’m always getting distracted by life’s footnotes.”
“I like the footnotes,” she said, too quickly, then added more softly, “I want to hear the footnotes.” She tilted her head, encouraging him to go on, but now a ball flew in their direction, and they had to pause their conversation so he could run to retrieve it. He scooped it off the ground and threw it to Chloe, who cradled it in her hands for a moment before tossing it backto the bowler. The game was happening right in front of them, but it felt like a sideshow, because her focus was being drawn toward him. As he walked back, John moved closer to her at second base.
“So, you were saying, about this painting in Ireland,” she prompted, wanting to give up on the game, not worry about being hit in the face with a ball because she was talking to John.
“Right, so in those two days I was hanging around Dublin, just waiting to see this painting, I had all these intense experiences—I met a girl, fell a little in love”—Chloe felt an illogical stab of jealousy—“got in a fight, joined a busking troupe. It was like I was living someone else’s life, not my own.” John squinted at her through the sunlight. “The painting gave me that.”
“Or was it your patience?” she asked. “Maybe patience is the key to everything: art, life, love, children?”
“Ball! Chloe!” someone shouted, and her attention was jerked back to Sean, who was sprinting toward second as someone threw the ball in her direction. She fumbled it, he ran past, but she managed to get it to the bowler before Sean made it all the way to fourth.
“Sorry,” she said, then saw that Rob was next up to bat. He positioned himself on the batting square, focused his gaze on the bowler, swung his arm back, andthwack, the ball flew in a perfect arc, right between third and fourth, traveling almost out of view across the wide expanse of field. “Run!” his teammates yelled. He made it around all four stumps, scoring the team’s first rounder before anyone was even close to fielding the ball.
