We had reached the edge of The Row, and we stopped on the slight hill above the street to look at the scene. At the far end, near Cassandra’s shop, a band was playing, and there was a crowd gathered in the street. All along the sidewalks, people milled around, some of them standing in groups and talking, others ducking in and out of the stores and restaurants. The patio where Sharon and I had eaten breakfast was packed, people sitting at tables or leaning against the railing. Through the wide, plate-glass windows of the bookstore, I could see a woman standing at a microphone doing a reading, a group perching on folding chairs in front of her.
I was struck again by how much the neighborhood had changed. The stores were less gentrified, less concerned with who they should keep out and more with inviting people in. The people had changed too—they were younger, they came in endless colors and shapes and sizes, and their hair was wildly dyed or gloriously plain, and their clothes were vintage or didn’t quite match, and they called to each other in languages I didn’t recognize, and I felt like I was living again instead of locked in a compound that was struggling to keep out anyone who didn’t matter, surrounded by people who looked more like themselves and less like everyone else. “This place has changed,” I said to Henry, and I could hear the breathless awe in my voice. It was silly to be so caught up in a stupid street fair, I knew, and at the same time, it wasn’t just a street fair. It was like sitting at breakfast the other day with Sharon, talking to Henry and Cassandra and all the other people who had come along, and realizing I thought there was nothing to surprise me about Magnolia, but I hadn’t known it at all.
“It has. There’s been a concerted effort to revitalize The Row. I got some great funding to help make The Kitchen happen because of it.”
“It just seems so strange, that this is the same neighborhood I grew up in. All these new stores, all these people I don’t know. It’s like an entirely new place.”
“Well, let’s get to know it,” Henry said. He took my hand to help me down a few crumbling steps to the street and I blushed at the heat of his skin, the reassuring comfort of his broad palm covering mine. When he let go, it felt like a loss. There was a twinge in my chest as I thought of Phillip, and I pushed it away. I didn’t want him in this moment.
We made our way down the center of the street, where the crowds were looser and more fluid. A group of girls slunk by, their youth dangerously beautiful, laughing and teasing each other in Spanish. A couple stood outside a pub with beers in their hands, chuffing out smoke as they laughed, and even the sharp smell of their cigarettes was romantic and comforting in the warm evening.
“So what were we talking about?” Henry asked as we stepped around a group of families in the middle of the street, plastic glasses of wine balanced in the cup holders of their strollers. “Oh, right. Art is impractical.”
“One summer I said I didn’t want to go to camp, I wanted to stay home and work on my painting, and my parents nearly went through the roof. And when they found out I was thinking about applying to art school instead of regular college—I never would have had the nerve to tell them; my college counselor spilled the beans—my father said he wasn’t spending a dime on some so-called ‘education’ at art school.”
“What did they want you to do?”
I looked up at the sky, which was the pleasantly indecisive mix of blue and gray and pink of a falling spring evening. “They just wanted me to get married. I don’t think they really cared whether I had a career or not. Women in my parents’ world . . . sometimes I wonder if they even know feminism is a thing. And they’re total hypocrites—they give money to the symphony, they go to events at the art museum. But my going to art school, somehow that would have been the worst thing ever.”
“I’m sorry,” Henry said, and it seemed like the right thing to say, so I smiled back at him. Despite the rest of his cleaned-up appearance, it looked like he hadn’t shaved for a couple of days, and he rubbed his face with his thick fingers. He seemed about to say something else, until a couple he knew spotted him and came over to say hello. He introduced me, and we chatted for a few minutes before they split off again.
“Thanks for coming out tonight,” he said as we started walking again. “It’s nice to be away from the restaurant on a Friday night. Feels like I’m breaking a rule.”
“I’m pretty sure you are. But you said it’s going well, right? You’re going to be McDonald’s before you know it.”
“Thanks, but no thanks. I only ever really wanted the one restaurant. And I wanted it not to fail. That’s an important caveat.”
“What did you do before?”
“This, basically. I mean, not running the place, but working in restaurants. I knew I wanted to be a chef since the first time my mother handed me pots and pans to bang together. Graduated high school, bam, right into culinary school. I’ve worked at restaurants all over town. Spent a few years at resorts in the Ozarks, too, which was pretty glamorous.”
“Even the name sounds glamorous. Ozark.”