Hiding my smile, I compliment her on the spread and take a bite out of some still-warm French bread. “This is delicious,” I admit. She sets out a bowl of fruit and a container filled with what looks like crushed olives. “Is this an olive spread?” I ask, reaching for a butter knife.
“Tapenade,” Trisha corrects before realizing how she sounds. Giving me a sheepish grin, she says, “Sorry.”
“Tapenade it is,” I say, assuring her no harm done. Taking another bite, I savor the olives mixed with peppers and garlic. “Thanks for this lunch. I was expecting Danish and coffee.”
“You remember?” Trisha asks, surprised. When Trisha was fourteen, she watched Breakfast at Tiffany’s for the first time. Deciding Audrey Hepburn was her idol, she insisted on eating Danishes and drinking decaf coffee for a full year.
“I can still taste it. You made me eat that stuff with you,” I say, shuddering. “To this day I cringe at the sight of a Danish.”
“Sorry,” she says, though I have the feeling she doesn’t mean it. We eat in silence, listening to the leaves rustling in the breeze. When we were young, it was rare for us to be in each other’s company without talking. To do so now makes me realize that we have both grown up but still find comfort in spending time together. “What was your favorite place to live?” Trisha asks quietly, surprising me. The few times we spoke over the years she never asked me where I was.
“Seychelles,” I answer without hesitation. “A small island in the Indian Ocean. Has a population of about ninety thousand.” I remember sleeping in a tent on the beach, waking every morning to the sounds of the ocean crashing against the shore.
“Were you lonely?” she asks, looking horrified.
I want to explain to her that loneliness isn’t remedied by people around me, that my loneliness is an integral part of me. But by admitting that to her, I would be welcoming questions I don’t have answers to. “Yes, I was.”
“I can imagine.” Taking some grapes from the bowl, she munches on them. She offers me some, and I take a handful. After setting the bowl back down, she stares into the forest. “There’s a mother looking for parents for her newborn,” she shares. “Eric wants to adopt the child,” she murmurs.
“That’s wonderful news?” I ask, assuming it would be.
“Maybe,” she says softly, but her face says otherwise. As I start to prod her for more, to ask why she doesn’t have children when that was all she ever wanted, she points behind me to a bird walking nearby. We both watch as it comes closer to us. “I think it is hurt,” Trisha exclaims. Jumping up, she walks slowly toward it, bending to scoop it up in her palm. “It’s the wing.”
On closer look, we see a small cut on the side of the wing. I spent over three months on an African safari for endangered animals doing a photo shoot for National Geographic. There I learned that an injured wing will heal in time, but the bird’s greatest threat was the danger in the wild in the meantime. “It needs food,” I say, starting to crumble the bread.
“Let’s build it a nest,” Trisha decides. Cradling the bird in one palm, she frantically starts to gather materials for a makeshift nest. I watch her curiously before she motions me to help. “Come on!”
For the next fifteen minutes we put together twigs, leaves, and grass and build the best nest we can. In between laughing, we argue about how to make the nest into the most luxurious bedding possible. Finally satisfied, we situate the new home in a circle of trees, protected from any prying eyes. After filling the nest with food, Trisha gently lays the bird down, but not before it gives Trisha a few hard pecks in gratitude. Rubbing her broken skin, she asks me, “You think it’ll work?”
“Yes,” I say with a surety I suddenly feel. “She’s going to be fine.”
“It’s a she?” Trisha teases me.
“He’s going to be fine.” When she gives me a look, I throw up my hands in mock surrender. “It’s going to be fine.”
Laughing, Trisha and I watch the bird settle in. As we start to walk away, she nudges me with her shoulder. “We should do this again.”
“Definitely,” I say, already looking forward to it.