They’d been studying together, sitting on a flat, grassy place in the Quad. It had been late spring; the cherry trees were just past full bloom, and tiny pink blossoms floated randomly to the ground. All around them, kids in shorts and T-shirts played Frisbee and kicked Hacky Sacks around.
Jack leaned over and slapped her book shut. “You know what they say about studying. If you do it too much, you’ll go blind.”
Laughing, she flopped back onto the grass and rested her hands behind her head.
He lay down beside her, on his side, with his head supported on one hand. “You’re so beautiful. I guess your Harvard fiancé tells you that all the time.”
“No.” Her voice was barely above a whisper. A pink cherry blossom petal landed on her cheek.
He brushed it away, and at the contact, she shivered. Slowly, he leaned toward her, giving her plenty of time to stop him, to roll away.
She lay very still, breathing too quickly.
It wasn’t much of a kiss; no more than a quick, scared brushing of lips. When he drew back, she saw that he was as shaken as she. She started to cry.
“Could you ever love a guy like me?”
“Oh, Jack,” she answered, “why do you think I’m crying?”
She touched the photograph, let her finger glide across his handsome face. No other man’s kiss had ever made her cry.
For the first time in weeks, she wondered if there was still a chance for them.
Now that she’d painted again, anything seemed possible. Color and passion had come back into her world; she was no longer a woman drawn in shades of gray.
The phone rang.
Meghann.
Elizabeth swooped down to answer it. “Did you get laid tonight?”
“Uh … Birdie?”
Elizabeth winced. Damn. “Hi, Anita, sorry about that.”
“I’m sorry to call so late. It’s just that … you said you’d call.”
Elizabeth heard the quiver in her stepmother’s voice. It was a sound all women knew, that desperate attempt to appear strong. She curled up on the sofa. “I’m sorry, Anita. Things have been a little crazy here. How are you doing?”
Anita laughed. It was a fluttery, sorrowful sound. “Oh, honey, I try not to think about myself too much.”
Elizabeth felt a spark of kinship with her stepmother. “That’s what we women do, isn’t it? We push our lives underwater and float on the surface. Then one day you realize it’s someone else’s pool.”
“What in the Sam Hill are you talkin’ about?”
“Sorry, Anita. The truth is I’m half drunk right now. It makes me philosophical.” She mangled that word pretty badly.
“I noticed that in your letter. I figured there was a whole bushel of a story I wasn’t gettin’.”
“You’ve got enough on your plate, Anita. You don’t need my mess piled on top.”
“You just can’t do it, can you, Birdie?”
“Do what?”
“Share your life with me. I thought now, with Edward gone, we might change things between us.”
“I was trying to protect you,” she answered, stung. “Jack and I have separated. But the girls don’t know, so don’t say anything.”
“Oh, my.” Anita released a breath; it made a squeaking sound, like a child’s toy. “But y’all seemed so happy together. What happened?”
“Nothing. Everything.” Elizabeth took a big swallow of wine. How could she explain her own formless dissatisfaction to a woman who’d wanted so little from her own life? Anita might understand the high and low tides of a long-term marriage, but she couldn’t understand how the ebb tides could erode a woman’s soul. And she sure couldn’t understand the yawning emptiness of a nest that had lost its chicks. “It’s just a bump in the road, Anita. I’m sure we’ll be fine.” And tonight—three glasses of wine later—she could almost believe that.
“Someday I’ll quit expectin’ you to grow up, Birdie. They’ll probably bury me the next day.” She laughed, but it was a bitter sound, not her laugh at all. “Well, I’m sorry y’all are havin’ problems. That’s what you want me to say, isn’t it?”
Elizabeth decided to move onto easy ground. This was getting too personal; it was ruining her good mood. “Enough about me. How’ve you been? I’ve been thinking about you.” That much was true, at least.
“This big ole house has a lot of ghosts,” Anita answered. “Sometimes it’s so quiet I think I’ll go crazy. Then I remember that I was crazy to start with.”
“You know what’s helped me? Sitting on the beach. Maybe a change of scenery would do you some good.”
“You think?”
This was definitely better. The scenery was a safe topic. “There’s something magical about sitting on a beach all by yourself. It’s funny, I was scared of the beach for years. Now I can’t be away from it too long.” Her voice snagged on a suddenly exposed shoal. “I always wanted you and Daddy to see it.”
“I know, honey. We thought we had time.”
Time. It was the rack everything hung on: life, loss, hope, love. So often, it seemed to slip through your fingers like silk. But sometimes, you could reach back into what was and take hold. “I took a painting class tonight,” she said softly.