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“We haven’t met, have we?” She extends her hand. “Marcia.” This is what happens when you build trust— when you offer to keep a person’s secrets.
“Vanessa.”
She drops the cigarette and stubs it out with her heel. “What do you do, Vanessa—when you’re not avoiding phone calls?”
You can’t be too hurried with answers when you’re working someone over, so I consider my response carefully. I take my time taking her in. I’m not sure if she’s exactly what I expected, or if she’s kicked back a few. Or both.
“I’m still making up my mind about that.”
She glances at my ring finger. “Well, what do you do while you’re still making up your mind?”
“I’m a writer.”
I can see the surprise on her face.
“Are you published?”
I look away like she’s hit a nerve. “Not yet…” I sigh wistfully. “But I have several pieces out on submission.”
“So you have an agent, then?” Surprise registers in her voice.
“I do.”
She crosses the patio, dusts off a lounge chair. I want to tell her she needn’t bother. Some member surely has scoured this place from top to bottom, in the name of God. To absolve themselves of their sins. We all end up paying in one way or another.
“What do you write?”
“Bad fiction, mostly.”
“So the truth, then.”
I smile. She beckons me to join her, but she isn’t expecting me to plop down beside her, not in the way I do. Her eyes had settled on the chaise adjacent to her. I kick off my sandals and tuck my feet under for good measure. I want to close the space between us. I want to feel familiar. Reckless.
“A writer,” she says after several beats of silence. “That’s impressive. I’ve always wanted to do something creative.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know…”
“I bet you do.”
Once again her eyes settle on mine. She’s trying to figure me out. She won’t. That’s my job. You don’t get to be a top-rated Siren in this congregation by being easy to read.
“Oh, you know…the usual.”
“I’m afraid I don’t. What’s the usual?”
She seems to really consider her response. “Well, when you’re young, you have all of these fantasies…ideas of things you could do but that you probably won’t do. Then…before you know it…things go in another direction. Life moves quick, and I guess you move with it, don’t you?”
I tilt my head. “You didn’t answer my question.”
She’s silent for several moments. We look out at the water, and the silver moon reflecting off of it. Some people are afraid of silence, so given just the proper amount of space to feel free, she answers. “I wanted to own a bakery.”
Pretending to mull over what she’s said, I turn to her suddenly, and lift her hand. I flip her palm over so it’s facing me. Tracing the lines with my fingertips, I study it carefully. “You have a baker’s hands.”
She laughs. But she pulls away. Too much, too soon. “There’s no such thing.”
My expression remains unchanged. “When was the last time you baked?”
