It is why Ezra would be taking his leave. He would do so neatly and quietly, in a way that appeared natural, for Amy’s sake. In a way that did not trouble anyone any more than absolutely necessary. He had already figured all of these things out. The only thing left was when.
Glancing up at the bright horizon once more and then down at his easel, Ezra lifted the still-wet painting and carried it promptly inside where he disposed of it in the trash. The trash collectors were coming the next day. If only he could dispose of the hurt that ached within his bones so easily. Perhaps this was a sign. Was it time to go?
Should he empty the fridge and dispose of all the perishables? The thought of someone coming in to a fridge filled with spoiled goods seemed unfair, and though he had not chosen a date, why not be practical about things? He had always been practical.
Until now, Rachel’s voice whispered in his mind.
For all the times he’d tried to conjure her, this time Ezra shooed Rachel’s voice away. It went against every fiber of his being, but he just could not have her interfering now; his battered mind was made up.
Rachel, however, would not be silenced.In that case, will you be running the dishwasher before you go? And what about the dishes, once they’re clean? Will you be stacking them neatly on the shelves one last time?
Ezra looked between the sink and the dishwasher. He hadn’t thought about all of that.
And the mail? Will you put it on hold?
Ezra winced, shaking his head at his wife’s insistence. “Please, Rachel,” he said aloud. It was too much.
Please what? Stand by and watch you make the worst mistake of your life?Her voice was ripe with pleading; it was the very reason he’d tried to turn a deaf ear to it these last couple days. And yet, despite his conviction about his decision, he could not shut her out. Overcome, Ezra lowered himself onto a kitchen stool with a softwhump, tears spilling from his eyes.
Enough. He would do it tomorrow. The garbage and dishwasher and personal belongings be damned. It was all just stuff, none of it holding any meaning to him anymore. What did any of it matter?
Outside, from the corner of his eye, Ezra caught something as it passed by the glass door. He turned, hoping it was just a stray deer wandering by. He hoped it was not another painful sign from Rachel. Why couldn’t she just leave him alone?
But no—it was that dog. The wretched shaggy dog from next door, back again. What was wrong with people these days?Filled with outrage, Ezra hopped up so sharply from the kitchen stool that it fell out from beneath him. Ignoring the clatter, he strode to the patio slider and flung it ajar.
The dog, who had lined itself up against one of his best flowering shrubs, froze, its rear leg in mid-lift.
“Get out of here!” Ezra shouted, pumping his fist. His voice, roaring from his throat, was not his own. Nor was the gesture, his fingers clenched angrily against the sky. But the rage was so great it propelled him through the sliding door and across the patio right up to the loose dog.
The dog, smarter than it looked, lowered its leg and darted away. Head turned and eyes locked on his, it slunk to the other side of his patio. Ezra followed. And then the toe of his shoe caught the lip of the flagstone.
He felt the fall come, his feet flying out from beneath him, the ground rising up to meet his face in slow motion. And then, suddenly, the flagstone was sailing toward him. He felt the contact: both hands, his cheek, his left shoulder as he crumpled against it. And then everything went very still.
Slowly, Ezra rolled onto his back, taking stock of his limbs. He had no idea where everything was, but it all seemed to be still attached. There was no hot white pain of a broken bone. All there was was blue cloudless sky overhead. And then, something else.
His bright view darkened like a solar eclipse when the big dog came to stand over him. Ezra winced as it sniffed the air above him. And then, the dog having sensed that he was not exactly a threat in this state, came the wet press of its nose. On his forehead, down his cheek. The wet nose stopped at the side of his head, and then there came a lick. “Ouch.” Ezra put his hand to his cheek. It was bleeding, just a little.
The dog looked down at him. Its eyes were big and round and green. Ezra had not known dogs could have green eyes. The dog kept watching; it seemed to be waiting for him to say something.
“I wouldn’t have hurt you,” Ezra whispered, finally.
Carefully, Ezra lifted himself to a seated position. The knee of his trousers was scuffed, and slightly torn. He could already feel the bloom of a bruise by his cheekbone. But the world was not spinning and he did not feel sick. Good signs, he told himself.
The dog, meanwhile, stayed where it was, its placid gaze still on him.
“May I?” Ezra asked, reaching out. He felt a little unsteady.
The dog stood very still.
Gently, Ezra looped one arm over the dog’s shoulders and shifted his weight. In that way, very slowly, Ezra gathered his feet beneath himself and rose to standing. Here the world did wobble a bit, and when he felt it spin he also felt the dog press reassuringly against him. “Well,” Ezra said, resting a hand on the soft breadth of the dog’s head.
When he recovered his wits, Ezra went inside for a glass of water. He cleaned himself up at the kitchen sink, blotting the small cut on his cheek with a paper towel. When he came back outside, the dog was still waiting.
“Alright then,” he said, heading gingerly across the yard in the direction of the inn. The big dog followed.
Holly
Where are you?” Holly hissed into the phone, hoping the rest of the staff wouldn’t overhear. After her grandmother’s antics on opening day, she wasn’t taking any chances.
