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Heartfelt

The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

I'm not going to make it, Shay thought. Why did she think she was up to this? She'd made this short walk to town her whole life, that's why. Now she could hardly make it back. She could see her house just down the road a bit, but it might as well be a hundred miles away. Her legs were wobbly, and her feet felt stuck in concrete. It had seemed warm when she started out, but now the May breeze coming off the ocean was unpleasantly chilly. Spring in Maine was often a challenge, and she wasn't up for any more challenges. Especially now when her energy was still missing. I'm at low tide, she thought.

Her doctor had warned her not to push herself, that recovery would take time, but she was sick to death of waiting. Sick to death, she thought in disgust, there's an expression for you. She felt the small paper bag slip from her fingers as she leaned forward to put her hands on her knees. Her large-brimmed hat threatened to fall off.

She was aware of a pickup truck coming to a stop next to her, just as she dropped her bag. She took a deep breath as oranges scattered everywhere. A man jumped out of the truck and came up to her.

"Ma'am, are you all right? Can I help?"

She shook her head, but no words came out. He bent down to pick up the oranges and put them back in the bag, along with a pound of butter and a small box of tea. She closed her eyes as he looked at her.

"Where do you live?" he said gently. "Can I give you a lift?"

"I just need a minute," she said in a voice hardly above a whisper. "That's my house up there."

She pointed to a house standing stark white against the intense blue of the sky, clinging to the edge of the cliff like the survivor of a gigantic wave that had tossed it up and abandoned it there. She wondered why he was staring so intently at the house, that something about it had captured his attention.

It was a two story house, with a deep porch, and wings added on either side. Beyond the house the ocean stretched to the horizon where the water faded into the sky. Spring daffodils lined the front walk, marching to different drummers in the breeze. Her mother had planted them many years before, and they were still going strong. More than I can say about myself, Shay thought. There was a sign in the front yard, Belle Harbor B&B, with a smaller sign hanging under it: Closed for the Season. Stuck in the ground nearby was the sign advertising a studio apartment for rent.

"This is the house I was looking for," he said. "I saw the ad in the paper this morning." He pulled into the driveway and came around to help her down.

"Are you sure you're all right?"

She waved off his concern. "I'm fine," she said, her voice stronger. "It was nothing, just got a little dizzy." It was easier to say that. Telling him she couldn't walk one more step would only risk questions.

"Is the apartment still available?"

She looked at him more closely. He had a nice face, salt and pepper hair, a bit shaggy, curling around his ears under the black baseball cap, a square jaw. Mid-fortyish, she guessed.

"It's very small," she said doubtfully.

"May I see it? If it's not too much trouble, if you're sure you're feeling okay."

After a small pause, she shrugged off his concern. "Sure, it's no trouble. I'll go in the house and get the key. Why don't you go down, and I'll meet you." She indicated the steps at the end of the driveway.

Shay went into the kitchen and found the key in a drawer. She went down to the basement and opened the door that connected to the apartment on the lower level of the house. She let him in and stood back. There were windows on three sides, looking out to the sea, with shelves underneath. There was a tiny kitchen along one wall with the basics, and an even tinier bathroom.

"It's awfully small," she said.

"Does the smell of oil paint bother you?" he asked.

Puzzled, she looked around the room with its white walls. "You want to paint the walls?"

He laughed. "No, I don't do walls. I'm an artist. I just need a place to work for a few months."

His laugh undid a knot inside her. Yes, she thought, and then thought immediately, No, not now.

"My son lived down here while he was going to Bolton Tech. He cooked God knows what, and he probably smoked God knows what, too, and I never smelled a thing upstairs."

"That's the good thing about old houses," he said.

She smiled. "Then there's leaky roofs and cranky plumbing."

"That, too," he said.

She looked around, then at him. He was tall and lean, but he looked solid, with broad shoulders. He made the space look even smaller. "You're sure it's not too small?"

He shrugged. "It'll do. My house is being remodeled. I thought I could work there anyway, but it's impossible. I came up here to camp out for a few days, to get away from the noise and the dust, and didn't have a thought to look for a place to rent until I saw your ad in the paper this morning. That's how far ahead I plan my life."

He smiled at her and she thought, I could get used to that smile. And thought again, No.

"Planning is overrated," she said. "If you want it, it's yours."

"I only need it for a few months. Is that okay?"

"Yes, it probably wouldn't rent until fall anyway, when the students come back." She held out her hand. "Shay Morgan."

"Drew Bennett," he said.

Her hand felt swallowed up in his. But he held it gently.

She pulled off her hat. Her hair was so short it was just a shadow on her head.

Drew wondered if she shaved her head. He'd seen it all at his university. The girls had shaved heads, or shaved on one side, long on the other, crew cuts and dreadlocks. It was all in style at the moment. Some of them looked bizarre, but this woman was beautiful. Now that he could see her face, he was struck by her eyes. The palest gray, the color of the sky before sunrise, almost transparent. He couldn't look away.

His mouth went dry. Not now, he thought.

Shay pointed to the bed and table. "I can have them removed if you'd rather have your own things."

"No, this is great. Leave them. I have to get some of my stuff from Boston, but I'd like to move in right away, if that's okay?"

"Come upstairs. There's some paperwork to sign. You have your own outside entrance, but we can go through the basement now to get upstairs."

In the kitchen, she turned to him. "You know this doesn't include breakfast, right?" When he nodded, she went on. "I only do the B&B in the summer. I teach school, and usually I open the B&B when school ends. But this year I'm taking some time off."

"I'm on sabbatical myself," he said. "But anyway, I don't usually eat much breakfast."

"Well, I do amazing breakfasts, if I do say so," she said, somewhat defensively. "When I cook."

"I believe you," he said.

She went to a desk and brought a folder to the kitchen table. She pulled out a standard rental form, nothing surprising, security deposit, notice of leaving, references. He pulled out his checkbook and wrote her a check for the first month and the security deposit.

"You can lock the door from the apartment to the basement, for your privacy. And I keep the kitchen door locked, for my privacy and security. I've rented out my rooms for years, and I'm a good judge of character. Don't prove me wrong."

"No, ma'am," he said. "For a minute there, you reminded me of being called to the principal's office in sixth grade." After a second, she smiled, and so did he.

"I'll be out tonight for my book club," she said, "but you can come and go as you please now. No curfews." She put the key down in front of him.

"Thanks, ma'am," he said.

As Shay was changing, she kept thinking about her new tenant. There was something very appealing about him, not just his smile, but the whole package. He was very tall and trim. Tall was not something she usually found attractive. Tall could be overwhelming when she was so short. But he seemed strong, without being threatening. Her mother always told her not to judge people by appearances, but it was hard not to. She had a good feeling about him, and at that her insides sank. She couldn't afford to get interested. Bad timing.

She glanced in the mirror as she got out of the shower, and looked away quickly. It was just a small mirror over the sink, but she still wasn't ready. Not yet, she thought. She got dressed, put on a ball cap, and stuffed the unread book in her tote.

Her book club met on the third Tuesday of the month. Tonight they were doing a biography about the poet Edna St. Vincent Millay. Shay hadn't been able to concentrate enough to read it, but everyone told her to come anyway.

The meeting was held, as always, at The Reader's Nook on Main Street in Belle Harbor. The town stretched several blocks long, with one cross street that curved down the hill to the marina and small public beach. Shay was the first to arrive. She had a compulsion to be early everywhere she went. Alicia, who owned the book store, came out from the back when she heard the bell. She wasn't much taller than Shay but round where Shay was thin. She wore her dark hair in an untidy bun on top of her head.

Shay let herself be enveloped in Alicia's arms. It was like hugging a pillow. Alicia held her away from her and examined her critically. "How are you doing?"

"Fine," Shay said automatically.

"You don't look fine. Are you eating at all?"

"Some," Shay lied. "Nothing tastes right."

"Yet," Alicia added firmly.

"Yet," Shay agreed. It was easier than arguing.

"You have to eat. We'll keep trying until you find something. We can get Cindy to make you some stuff."

"Thanks for the thought, but back off." She said it mildly. Alicia was a good friend, and Shay knew she meant well. Everyone was worried about her.

Alicia put up her hands in surrender. "Fine, go and fade away to nothing. Come sit, they'll be here soon."

They went to the reading area in the back where a comfortable blue flowered couch and upholstered chairs encouraged customers to linger. There was a fire going in the wood stove in the corner to take the chill off the evening.

The doorbell announced the arrival of two more women. Cindy, her hair a mass of dark curls, came in carrying a plate of brownies, with her partner Joelle right behind her. Shay always thought Joelle looked like a wood sprite, with her big blue eyes and pale blonde hair. She was a former dancer with a dancer's grace and posture. Now she and Cindy owned the town bakery and café and always provided refreshments for book club.

Alicia brought out a tray of coffee and tea, and a pot of herbal tea for Shay, just as Martine came in on a blast of cold air. Martine was always so full of energy she sometimes exhausted Shay. Her hair was bright red spikes this week. She was tall and thin and beautiful, dressed in a black mini skirt, patterned tights, and black pumps with dangerously high heels.

"Sorry I'm late, guys. Someone came into the gallery just as I was ready to close. I couldn't kick him out."

"An honest to God customer, or just someone looking to score," Alicia asked with raised eyebrows.

Martine made a face at her, then raised crossed fingers. "I think a live one, a miracle before the season starts. We'll see."

Shay poured herself some of the herbal tea, though even the smell made her queasy. She knew she wouldn't drink any.

"Well, I just rented the basement apartment, to an artist," she said. "He wants a place to work for a few months." She was grateful she had news of a safe topic to share.

Martine sniffed. "A Sunday painter, no doubt. Seascapes and little sail boats."

"How old is he?" Cindy asked, just as Alicia asked, "Good looking?"

Shay shrugged. "I'm bad at guessing age. About my age, maybe, mid-forties. He's got gray hair but a youngish face. Sort of craggy. Tall. And yes," in answer to Alicia, who nodded back at her.

"Ho ho," Alicia said.

"Cut that out," Shay said. "I'm not interested, not now." Maybe never, she thought.

Suddenly they were all full of questions, and Shay shook her head. "That's all I know. He asked if the smell of paint would bother me, and I thought he wanted to paint the apartment."

They all looked at her and burst out laughing. "He's from Boston, needs a quiet place to work. Saw my ad in the paper. That's it."

Still looking disdainful, Martine said, "What's his name?"

"Drew Bennett." She thought back to the rental agreement he'd signed. "Andrew Bennett."

"Andrew Bennett," Martine repeated, then sat up straighter. "Holy crap. He's here?"

Without waiting for an answer, she jumped up and went to the art section at the front of the bookstore. After a minute she came back with a coffee-table-sized book and held it out to Shay, open to the back flap. "Is this him?"

"That's him." They all crowded around to stare at the picture of Drew, looking into the camera, arms crossed, a hint of a smile in the corners of his mouth, He was wearing a striped shirt open to a navy blue T-shirt.

"Yum," Alicia said and they all nodded.

Martine sank back into her chair. "I just read an article about him in the New England Art News. He's getting ready for a show at the Fairhill Gallery in Boston next spring. Oh my God, he's getting ready here. I have to meet him. Oh Shay, please bring him to the gallery. Please."

Shay stared at her. "I just met him, Martine. I don't even know when he's moving in. I want to leave him be."

Martine was not ready to give up. "I'm having an opening the end of the month for the New England Watercolor Society. Maybe you could bring him to the opening."

Shay didn't answer and Martine silently mouthed, "Please," at her.

Alicia cleared her throat. "Well, I have news. I'm going to get a divorce."

"Hallelujah," Joelle exclaimed. "It's about time."

Alicia and her husband Ray had been separated for a couple of years, and the marriage hadn't been much even when they were together.

"I wasn't ready," Alicia said defensively. "I thought maybe we could try, you know."

"That only works if both people try."

"Well, I'm finished."

"Did you get a lawyer?" Cindy asked.

"Yes, his name is George Davis. He's in Portland."

"Portland? What's wrong with the lawyers around here?"

"Too incestuous. The town is so small you can't sneeze without everyone sending you a get well card."

"Or bringing you some of Cindy's chicken soup," Shay said, but she smiled at her friend.

"I'll keep you posted," Alicia said.

Shay left her cup of tea untouched and picked up the art book. It was titled Paintings by Andrew Bennett, Abstracting Nature. Leafing through, she was struck by the strong shapes and brilliant colors. At first she saw only angles and lines, but looking closer, she saw the fragments of landscape captured in the angles. She put down the book as the conversation moved on to the poet under discussion. It was a relief to focus on someone else's life other than her own.

Later, as they were all getting ready to leave, Cindy gave her arm a gentle squeeze. "You didn't touch the brownies," she said quietly. "Still can't eat?"

Shay shook her head.

"How long will this last? You're finished with your treatments, aren't you?"

"Had my last one a week ago. I think I'll feel better soon. Or else I'll throw myself off a cliff. Fortunately, there's one right behind my house."

"Well, send out a signal when you're ready. When you can eat, I mean, not when you're going for the cliff. I, personally, and Joelle, of course, will start fattening you up. You feel like a pile of twigs."

"Thanks for that," Shay said, but she hugged Cindy, grateful for her friends.

When Drew got to his townhouse in Boston, he found his brother Frank's truck in the driveway. Frank was in the kitchen, or what used to be the kitchen, and Drew hoped fervently it would be again someday. Now it was just an empty space, cabinets and appliances gone. Frank was in the process of ripping out the wall between the kitchen and dining room.

"Scary," Drew said, looking around.

Without stopping what he was doing, Frank said, "Change your mind?"

"It's a little late for that, don't you think? How come you're the only one working?"

Frank turned around to look at him with disgust. "Because it's Sunday."

"Oh, right. So how come you're working?"

"Wanted to get out of the house for a while. Lucy's in a mood. Hormones."

Frank was five years younger, but like Drew, he was prematurely gray. Now the gray was covered in drywall dust. He had Drew's dark eyes, their mother's eyes, and the same square jaw as Drew's. Anyone looking at them would know they were brothers.

"How's Patti?" Drew dropped his backpack on the floor and waited for the answer. It came slowly.

"Angry," Frank said.

"Still? God damn it, it's been more than a year." He took off his ball cap and ran his hand through his hair. "Is it ever going to get better?"

"I wish I could say yes, but I just don't know."

"You're supposed to give me some crap about, sure it will, just give it time," Drew grumbled. "That's what her therapist says anyway."

"Sorry, I'm fresh out of crap today." Frank pulled out a couple of beers from a small portable cooler and offered one to Drew.

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Excerpted from Heartfelt by Carol Owen. Copyright © 2016 Carol Owen. Excerpted by permission of The Wild Rose Press, Inc..
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