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Pulling the collar of her lightweight denim jacket closed and tossing her head quickly to the side served two purposes. She managed to warm herself from the biting weather and then to glance behind her, making it look as though she were tossing her hair from her eyes. She hated the paranoid feelings she’d been unable to push away. Her counselor told her that anyone who had gone through the same things she had would take more than five years to overcome the fear and anxiety that’d become her companion. But she was growing impatient.
She opened the door to the little coffee shop she frequented and was greeted by the ringing of the little bell above the door, and the warmth wrapped around her like a woolen blanket as she stepped inside. The aroma of freshly-brewed coffee and the sounds of the cappuccino machine whirring and whipping up a concoction enveloped her. The only customer waiting for his order was a tall, thin, nicely-dressed man. Taking her place in line just behind him, she fought the urge to look behind her and lost as the door opened again and three teenagers entered the shop, laughing and nudging each other as friends do. At least, that’s what she assumed friends would do if a person had them.
Closing her eyes and taking a cleansing breath, she squared her shoulders and fisted her hands. She could do this. The barista slid the freshly-brewed, steaming drink toward the man and glanced at her as she came into view.
“Hi, what’ll ya have?” he asked, his deep brown eyes crinkling as he smiled.
Clearing her throat, she ordered. “I’d like a white chocolate macchiato with two percent, please. Medium.”
“You got it. Your name, please.”
“Ah, Kiera.” She opened her worn, black leather purse, reached into a side pocket, pulled a five-dollar bill out and laid it on the counter as the barista wrote her name on the cup.
Glancing behind her again, she saw the teenagers had taken a seat in the window. She tilted her head side to side to ease the growing tension. She hiked up the drawing bag she carried and squeezed her purse tighter to her belly. The barista slid her drink forward, nabbed her money from the counter, and efficiently made change. She smiled softly and pointed to the tip cup as she picked up her coffee.
“Thank you, Kiera; you have a great day.”
She nodded and stepped away, turned to the back of the shop and found a table in the corner. Taking the seat against the wall facing the open shop, she sipped once, set her cup down and pulled her drawing pad from the bag she carried. The hard pencil case she’d found in the antique shop in Galina, Illinois found a spot next to the pad. She pulled her jacket off and hung it on the back of the chair and took her seat.
The designs floated through her mind at all times of the day and night. Architecture had been her passion in college. But her husband forbade her to work—any job—and she’d set it aside in an effort to not make waves. Waves were painful. Last year, the buildings came back to her, and she’d found the courage to venture into an art store and purchase the supplies she needed to begin designing again. At first, her drawings were rudimentary, and she’d thought the talent she’d once had had left her. Her mom encouraged her to keep going, and she found her sweet spot.
The bell above the door rang out the entrance of a new customer, and the woman’s sweet laugh caught her attention. A middle-aged couple stepped into the coffee shop holding hands, sharing something for just the two of them. Short stylish hair with caramel highlights framed her petite face. The gray pea coat fit her perfectly, and the Army green scarf and gloves said elegance. It was hard to look away. But then the handsome man with her leaned in and kissed her lips, ran his thumb along her bottom lip while gazing into her eyes and the picture of the two together made her heart jump. His dark graying hair was neatly combed, his face classic—he stood a foot taller than the woman, but somehow, they fit perfectly together.
How lovely to see a couple who appeared to be in their mid-fifties still so passionate and in love. It was clear in the way they reacted to each other. Her stomach clenched while watching them. Those days were gone for her.
Taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly, she pulled her attention away from the couple and to her drawing. Studying it for a long while, adding a line here and there, she jumped when the chairs at the table next to her scraped the floor as the man pulled it out for his woman. Sitting, while glancing over at her sketch pad, the woman smiled at her.
“Are you an architect?”
Swallowing and laying her pencil in its case, she folded her hands in her lap. “Yes. Sort of.”
The woman leaned over and held out her hand. “Samantha Kinkaide. This is my husband, Grayson. He’s an architect. The best.”
Shaking the small cool hand offered to her, she replied, “Kiera Donnelly.”
Grayson shook her hand, as well. “Nice to meet you.”
He sat and smiled. “How are you ‘sort of’ an architect?”
Giggling because it seemed ridiculous, she gingerly answered, “It’s just been … I went to college for architecture, and I was good. But after marriage, I wasn’t allowed … I didn’t work, and now I’m trying to get back into it.”
“May I?” Grayson asked as he slid her pad toward him without waiting for permission. Her stomach clenched as he looked over her drawing, his face impassive. “I like the style lines you have at the corners, and your symmetry is very good. The Belvedere is an interesting touch, and the arched windows speak of Italian design. Have you been to Italy?”
“No. It’s been a dream of mine. Maybe someday.” Picking up her coffee to mask her nervousness, she sipped slowly. Thinking perhaps she was being a bit abrupt, she added, “Have you been?” She looked at Samantha as she asked.
Samantha responded with a giggle. “We honeymooned there and go back every year on our anniversary. I absolutely love it there. So much so that Gray bought us a villa in the Tuscan Valley.”
She couldn’t help but notice that Gray had flipped the pages and was looking over her other sketches. “That sounds heavenly. I’m a bit jealous.”
“So, Kiera, what firm do you work for?” His voice was deep and rich.
Her hands nervously twisted in her lap. “I don’t work for a firm at the moment. I’m still trying to work up the courage to interview.”
