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Or, she thinks they’re ridiculous and possibly insensitive,my mind whispers, playing devil’s advocate.
“Anyway, it’s one of those things. She’s this forbidden fruit—God, scratch that. She’s this… intriguing woman that I can’t get close to, considering the situation,” I say, wrapping up. “It’s typical, really. Before I went away, Lyndsey made it her mission to try and set me up with the worst women in existence: pretty but vacuous, or intensely boring, or one of these women who squawk on about themselves for two hours and never ask a single question; they’re just milking you for all the free food and drinks they can get. Although, I can’t be too harsh: I’m terrible at dating, always saying the wrong thing and making jokes that go down like a lead balloon. I imagine they had plenty to complain to Lynds about—probably why I don’t see them around anymore.
“Now, my sister is at it again, trying to hook me up with her single mom friends. That Rebecca woman was too much, laughing at everything I said, and she knewexactlywhere the board was, but thought pinning the tail on me would… I don’t know… make her the highest bidder, or something? I don’t mean to judge, but that woman is clearly only seeing a cash cow: she asked me what I drove, if I own my house, if I have other property, if I drinkWhispering Angel,if my watch was a real Rolex. It’s not, by the way. She stopped short of asking for my tax returns, but with another glass of wine, I bet she would have.
“But Summer is… like opening a package that I’ve been waiting for months to arrive. That’s how… uh… I felt, in here,” I touch a palm to my chest, “when I saw her again. I know it’s stupid, and I need to put any thought of her in the digital trashcan along with this video, but it’s not as easy as just pressing delete when she’s one door away from me. She’s in this house, right now, and I’m having to talk myself out of sneaking over to ask her if she wants to have another drink out in the garden. It’s a warm enough night but, again, stupid. She’s a widow. Her husband died—what, two years ago? And her husband was my niece’s father, and my sister’s ex. How’s that for a tangled web, huh?” I sweep a hand through my hair, feeling the stress rising like a tickle in the back of my throat. “Ugh, I just need to go to bed. It’s probably the beer and champagne talking. So, yeah, it’s been a good day, more or less. No heart attack yet. Check in tomorrow to hear the fresh ramblings of a madman.”
I end the recording and note the time: I talked for almost eight minutes. Definitely the longest to date. Is that a good thing? I’m not asking my therapist, just in case she requests to see it. It’s supposed to be private, something that’s just for me, but I keep waiting for them to haul my videos in as evidence that I’m “recovering”.
Setting the phone aside, I pull the covers up to my chin and stare up at the ceiling. I’m a back sleeper, always have been, though I’ve been told it makes me look like I’m awaiting burial.
But as my thoughts drift to Summer, sitting by the willow tree, sipping from a glass of wine that casts rainbow shards onto the flowing skirt of her dress, her closed eyes tilted up toward the sun, I feel a spark of life in my chest that hasn’t been there in a long, long time. A passion for something. An interest. A desire to know her, and dip below the surface of what she shows the world.
It's a crying shame that she’s the one woman who’ll have to remain a mystery, for everyone’s sake.
5
SUMMER
Monday arrives with a flood of unchecked items on my ever-lengthening to-do list, and though I should show my face in the gallery, it’s too early to put on my boss hat and sit tapping away in the office. It’s too quiet there, in the office that overlooks a quaint alleyway and the mature gardens of the house opposite. I’ve seen the old woman who lives there a couple of times, and she’s as exotic as her garden: a bird of paradise among the birds of paradise. I aspire to be her, but, first, coffee.
Walking into the Brass Whistle never fails to make my heart, and my caffeine addiction, sing. It’s like passing through the gateway to another world, where bouncers in pinstripes and fedoras would ask me to state my business, on the lookout for undercover cops who want to put an end to this Speakeasy. It’s a melting pot of eras, throwing Formica tables—snapped up from local auctions—together with worn wooden tables that likely saw the Western frontier, and circular, glass-topped beauties from the 30s with wrought-iron legs that I’ve often thought about stealing for my apartment balcony. None of the chairs match, and the ceiling is low and raftered, adding to the clandestine feel of the place. It’s not a hole-in-the-wall, but it’s a “you’ve got to know it, to know it” café.
“Well, well, well, look at what the cat dragged in!” a husky, warm voice envelopes me, coming from behind the brass-fronted counter that looks like it came from a turn of the century drugstore. There’s an old-timey cash register sitting front and center beside the bakery display, hiding the modern one that could never compare.
I offer a shy wave to Georgie, forever half in love with her. “Do I look that bad? I figured the hangover had worn off by now.”
“We on waving terms now? You lost your love for me already, after one afternoon in Slidell?” Georgie wags an elegant finger. “I thought I taught you better.”
I laugh as I approach the counter, where Georgie is already preparing my order. I hate to think I’m that predictable, but there’s comfort in routine, and the Brass Whistle has the best pain-au-chocolat outside of France. I’ve never been, but I’d put good money on them being able to trick even the most discerning French palate.
“How was it? Tell me all. Did Grace like her present?” Georgie is like a dancer behind the counter, gracefully sweeping from the milk foamer to the stack of random cups and mugs that line the rickety wooden shelves above her. “You didn’t give it to her, did you?” She pauses and gives me a knowing look, before grabbing tongs and picking the fattest pain-au-chocolat on display to pop in the toaster oven.
“I left it with Lyndsey. Thought I should let her decide if it’s appropriate,” I explain, perching on one of the three red-topped stools that line the far side of the counter.
“For the lonely souls,”Georgie once told me, when I first stumbled on this haven, drawn in by the scarlet canopies that arched over the leaded windows.
“You gonna tell me what it was, now, or you gonna keep holdin’ those cards close to your chest?” Georgie asks, setting the pastry down in front of me, perfectly warmed, as she finishes off my coffee. “Let me say somethin’—you’re never gonna know if you’ve won if you hold ‘em there.”
I pick a corner off the pastry and pop it into my mouth. It’s rich and buttery, and would’ve been ideal yesterday morning, when I was nursing the world’s worst hangover. I left Lyndsey’s pretty quickly yesterday, scooting out of their hair by lunchtime, though I still couldn’t say why I was in such a rush. I didn’t have anything to get back for, but I was… antsy there. I can’t explain it. I’ve felt out of place, sure, but I’ve never been uneasy at Lyndsey’s place before.
Nothing at all to do with the good-looking brother who turned out to be really good company. No, nothing at all,my mind taunts, and I eat another bite of pastry to shut it up.
“Earth to Summer?” Georgie waves a hand under my face. “You gonna answer a girl or not? Don’t you keep me hangin’—I don’t like heights.”
I cup my hands around the green, polka-dot mug when Georgie puts it down, absorbing the heat though it’s baking hot outside and the AC in this place is as ancient as some of the tables. “It was a picture. A painting,” I begin tentatively. “One of the ones I kept behind, and didn’t put in Ben’s show.”
“It a tasteful nude of you or somethin’? You lettin’ Lyndsey decide if Grace is ready for an education in the arts?” Georgie grins, but her eyes are soft and sad, encouraging me to keep talking.
“It’s of a boat at sunset, and there are three figures painted in silhouette,” I continue, pushing the words past the lump in my throat. “It was Ben’s way of saying that he wanted us to be a proper family. His way of saying he wanted… more with me.”
Georgie expels a low whistle. “That boy sure had a way of makin’ damned certain you’d never forget him, huh? The most I’ve ever got from a guy is—well, that ain’t somethin’ you want to hear about over your mornin’ croissant.” She rests her elbows on the countertop, closing the gap between us. “You think Lyndsey is gonna keep it from Grace? I take it she wasn’t in the paintin’?”
“Lyndsey has seen it before. She used to joke that she was on the shore, biting her fingernails until the boat came back, terrified that Grace would suddenly decide to do a swan dive off the deck.” My spirit lightens, thinking of Lyndsey’s unyielding generosity to the usurper who wedged herself into the family. “But… she didn’t seem to think it was a good idea to give it to Grace, and the more I have time to mull it over, I don’t think I do, either. It’s too soon.”
“It’s been two years,” Georgie points out. “Two years where you’ve been playin’ the diligent widow, gatherin’ cobwebs in all sorts of places. I’ll say this ‘til I’ve got steam comin’ out my ears, Summer, but you need to get yourself back out there before all the good ones are shoveled up and you have to wait for the comet of divorcees to come back around.”
I force a chuckle. “It’s a violent pool to be in, let me tell you.”
