“Both, I suppose,” Olivia said, sounding less than convinced as she surveyed the tiny seating area, where families of tourists ate their lunches out of wicker baskets.
Ellie tucked the newspaper under her arm, avoiding a searching look from Graham, and took the cups from Meg. “Thanks so much,” she told her. “I’ve got to get back.”
“Good to see you,” Graham said, and Ellie nodded stiffly. As she pushed open the door, she heard Olivia ask, “Do you know her?”
She didn’t wait to hear his response.
Outside, she forced herself to hurry back across the green on wobbly legs. The door to the shop was propped open with an old lobster trap, and though she was greeted by a wall of hot air, heavy and stifling, Ellie still felt a swell of relief at having returned.
Mom was leaning on the counter, propped up on one elbow, mopping at her forehead with a bandanna. When she saw Ellie, she straightened up.
“You look like you just ran a marathon.”
“It sort of feels that way,” Ellie said, setting the dripping cups on the counter. She hadn’t realized her hands were shaking, and she tried to steady them as she slipped the newspaper from underneath her arm and hid it behind one of the bins of toys lined up at her feet so that she could come back for it later.
“You okay?” Mom asked, and Ellie nodded.
“I’m fine,” she said, but that wasn’t quite true. She was dazed by what had just happened. She was shaken by the article about her father. She was tired of running away from Graham. She was miserable. She was heartbroken. She was anything but fine.
“Good,” said Mom. “ ’Cause I thought we could finish up the windows.”
Ellie sighed wearily. Mom had an exhausting habit of changing out the two window displays every few weeks. “Today?” she asked, though what she really meant was, In this heat?
Mom chose to ignore her. “It’s as good a day as any,” she said. “I’m thinking the crustacean chess board should go on one side, maybe with some seashells around it, and then we could put some of your frames on the other.”
“Fine,” Ellie said, walking over to the window boxes to begin clearing out the beach balls that had been there since school let out.
“I’ll do that,” Mom said. “Can you add some more poems to the new frames? We’re a couple short now.”
Ellie reached down for the small volume of poetry she kept tucked in her bag. They’d sold two frames last week, both housing poems by Elizabeth Bishop, and Mom was sure that was why. The woman had apparently spent nearly fifteen minutes reading through them before deciding which to buy.
Now, as she settled on the stool behind the counter, Ellie was already debating between Auden and Yeats. But when she opened the book, a loose page slipped out, and she was surprised to find herself holding Graham’s drawing.
Her eyes followed the lines on the page, the whole thing a study of geometry, with arrow-straight edges and precise corners. It was like falling into a dream, and she felt herself getting lost inside the lines, the simplicity of the page a safety net against the memory of the day it was made.
She ran a thumb across the tiny hole where the pencil had gone through the paper when she interrupted him. Behind the drawing, she could see the faint imprints of certain words, and she flipped it over and examined the menu, suddenly back in that shop with Graham, the air filled with the sweet smell of chocolate.
She sat there for a long time, holding the drawing by its edges, her mind drifting. And then she stood and carried it to the back of the shop, where she selected one of the new frames—a sturdy-looking black one—and removed the back. As she slid the drawing inside, she was careful to hide the signature along the bottom, the uneven gray line that might give away the artist.
When she brought it out to the front of the shop, Mom frowned.
“That’s not a poem,” she said, but Ellie didn’t listen. She set down a pink index card that read “Drawing not for sale” and then placed the frame on top of it, propped in the window alongside the others so that it was angled south, where it would face the water and harbor. Where it would face Graham.
“Yeah,” she said, “it is.”
From: [email protected]
Sent: Wednesday, July 3, 2013 11:44 AM
Subject: (no subject)
Hey Evan,
Looks like I’ll be home this weekend after all. Hard to believe it, but we’re on schedule with the shoot, and I’m ready to get out of here. If you could just feed Wilbur around lunchtime on Saturday, he should be fine till I get back later that night.
Thanks again, man. Give the hog a hug for me.
GL
Chapter 14
The moment he saw her in the deli, Graham understood his mistake.
He hadn’t forgotten about her. But he had given up.
And now, sitting across the table from Olivia, he felt a quick flash of certainty, a desperate flailing knowledge that he’d done the wrong thing. He should have tried harder. He should have shown up at her house every night, called her every day, e-mailed her every hour. He shouldn’t have taken no for an answer.
He shouldn’t have walked away.
And now it was too late.
She hadn’t even looked at him. Not once.
Across from him, Olivia was squinting at the menu, which was scrawled on a chalkboard above the deli counter. “How can there be no salads,” she said, a whiny note to her voice that she managed to drop only when she was in character.
“I’m sure they can throw some lettuce in a bowl for you,” he said distractedly, and she looked at him as if he’d suggested she eat off the floor.
For almost three weeks now, he’d been imagining what would happen if he ran into Ellie again. But none of those scenarios involved being out with Olivia.
“Excuse me,” she was saying, waving down the woman who’d helped sweep up the candy earlier. “Would it be possible to get some sort of arugula salad? Do you have any pear? Or goat cheese?” She turned to Graham with a dazzling smile. “I could really go for some goat cheese.”
It was clear the woman was trying not to laugh. “We only have what’s on the menu,” she said, gesturing to a board filled with options like roast beef, turkey, and ham. “And you order up at the counter.”
Graham rose to his feet. “I’ll get it.”
“I guess I’ll have a turkey sandwich, then,” Olivia said, pulling out her phone with a sigh. “No bread.”