The Moments Between

by Natalie Banks

  My class was held at ten in the morning, which afforded me the time to grab a fresh latte on the way in. A little luxury just for me.

  I walked into class with my coffee in hand and took my usual seat in the back. The teacher had placed fresh canvases on our stand-up easels. I ran my fingers along the blank canvas, relishing in the unlimited possibilities.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Sarina come in. A self-proclaimed psychic and she dressed the part. She had shoulder-length, curly, black hair with scattered wisps of grey and steel blue eyes that were lined with dramatic black, winged eyeliner. She wore a flowing floral kimono over a long grey maxi dress. Around her neck she wore silver chains with several natural stones dangling from them, their edges raw and uncut. Sometimes when she would speak, I would see her grasp one of the stones and move it around delicately with her fingers. I didn’t know if it were a nervous habit or if there was something more to them that I wasn’t aware of.

  As she walked in, I avoided eye contact. I had never been around anyone like her before and she made me uncomfortable.

  She passed by me and smiled. “Good morning, Claire,” her voice soft and friendly.

  I nodded in response as the smell of essential oils wafted up my nose.

  She took her place at the easel to the left of me.

  I pretended to sort my paints and brushes to avoid conversation.

  Not long after, Mr. Thompson came in, smelling of coffee and Old Spice aftershave, and claimed his spot on the other side of me. He was, what I guessed to be, in his late seventies. A retired police officer and a widower.

  He was tall, had a square jaw, and a head full of thick gray hair. Something he always bragged about. He would always ask us if we knew of another old man with as much hair as he had. Even if anyone did, no one would object to his claim.

  He nodded to me and cleared his throat as he sat down on the stool by his easel.

  “Hope you’re well this mornin’,” he said as he gave me a denture filled smile.

  I smiled back.

  I looked at him, noticing that his shirt was slightly wrinkled. I felt a pang of sadness, with the thought of how his wife was no longer there to make sure he had nicely pressed shirts. She died of breast cancer four years ago.

  He didn’t say much about her.

  We only knew her name was Lola.

  The two paintings he had done so far in class, he had said they were for his Lola.

  He was a nice man but his presence here…his loss of Lola… it shook me to the core.

  I came here to escape. To not think about the dream.

  And his grief, his pain brought the memories to the surface.

  Not long after he sat down, the music started.

  Our teacher, Amanda Quick, always said creativity flowed better when it had a soundtrack. She had us listen to the likes of Yoyo Ma and Kevin Kern while we painted. The notes floated through the air, enrapturing us into another realm, where we freely connected with our creativity.

  Our class had a total of six students. I hadn’t gotten to know the other three ladies in the class yet. I figured them to be my mom’s age. They sat in the first row right by Amanda’s easel. They were eager to be the teacher’s pets and seemed to have their own clique going on, leaving Sarina, Mr. Thompson, and I with our own awkward little gang.

  Amanda looked to be in her twenties and always wore her medium-length, brown hair in two braids that she tied up with pieces of colorful yarn. Every time I saw her, she was wearing a white tank top with paint splatters and varying wide legged patterned pants that somehow seemed to match the paint splattered shirt perfectly. She also wore fifties style cat eye glasses that were lime green. She was a bit eccentric, but her smile was genuine and her laugh was contagious.

  When class was over, I walked to my car with a painting of a beach dune under my arm, breathing in the warm spring air. I passed by bushes full of bright pink azalea blooms as tiny birds poked around underneath them, looking for food.

  I had just settled into my driver’s seat when my cell phone rang.

  It was Jamie calling. I was happy to hear from her. It had been a while since we last spoke.

  Jamie and I had been friends since we both moved to Charlotte. We met in the parking lot of Harris Teeter. She was loading groceries into the back of her Volkswagen Bug, when she dropped a bag of red apples. They rolled in every direction possible. I quickly ran over to help her wrangle all the apples back into the bag. We both laughed as one of the runaway apples was smashed by the tire of unsuspecting car.

  We stood in the parking lot making small talk, that suddenly flowed into a rush of conversation that has never ended.

  She was older than me by ten years, but we appeared to be same age. She was newly married too, but for the second time around.

  She told me her first husband never grew up. “That was grounds for divorce, right?” she said, as she laughed heartily.

  Her second husband’s name was Mike, and he was my age. She was always bragging about being a cradle robber, though, he was prematurely bald. Jamie always laughed and said that was God’s way of evening things out.

  Mike was one of the top salesmen at the Mercedes dealership, giving them a comfortable life. They had three children in the span of time I had my two. Two girls and a boy, all under the age of seven. She laughed and said she was trying to get all her baby making days in before she was too old.

  With her naturally red hair and vibrant green eyes, she was stunning and, in some ways, reminded me of Mandi. But Jamie had a heart of gold. If you ever needed to feel better about yourself, you could spend some time around Jamie. She had a way of making everyone she was around feel like a million bucks.

  Before I could even say hello, I heard Jamie on the line. “Took you long enough, lady!”

  I laughed. “You know I had art class today…”

  “Oh, I forgot.” She snorted a little. “Did you paint a masterpiece?”

  I just laughed again in response.

  “So, you have your deposit for the trip?”

  “What trip?” I asked.

  The phone was silent for a moment.

  “What do you mean, what trip? This was your idea!”

  “I thought it was cancelled,” I answered bluntly.

  “Claire, are you okay??” she responded.

  I sat quietly trying to figure out what was going on.

  “God, Claire, you know, the trip to Asheville!?” she spouted.

  “Yes! Of course, I know… but we cancelled that trip… because Annie broke her ankle…remember? We decided to reschedule it… for next year, right?” I stuttered a little, trying to remember the exact details myself.

  There was silence on the phone for just a moment, a rarity for Jamie.

  “Annie’s fine, Claire… Are you sure you’re okay?” Her voice was clearly strained with concern.

  I watched the teacher’s pet trio pass by the front of my car, lost in their own conversation.

  Dizziness overtook me as I tried to put the pieces together.

  I definitely remembered Annie getting hurt and us rescheduling the trip. But why didn’t Jamie know about it?

  Wasn’t she the one that called and told me?

  We had planned a girl’s only trip to The Grove Park Inn, a luxurious historic hotel in Asheville nestled next to the mountains. We needed a getaway. An escape. And The Grove Park Inn was ideal. Just by walking in the door, you would immediately be swept away by the lavishness of the inn, gigantic stone fireplaces, expansive views, and the uniformed concierges as they stood by, waiting on your requests. We planned on getting the works, with two deluxe rooms and a view of the mountains, wine every night, and spa services galore. The cure for mom-burnout.

  Annie and Jessica were Jamie’s neighbors and had become my friends by default, and the many summer days we
had spent together, with all of our kids playing in Jamie’s backyard, had bonded us for life.

  Jessica was the prettiest and youngest of our group at only 23 years old. She had long dark hair that she usually kept in a messy bun, yet still always looked fabulous. She only had one child but she fit in with us perfectly. Her bubbly personality and bright outlook were good for all of us, but her perfect figure was the envy of all. Her body didn’t seem to have betrayed her after having a baby the way ours had. She would always say how she needed to lose five more pounds, and we wondered to ourselves and often out loud where she thought she was going to pull five pounds from?

  Annie was the same age as Jamie and had her two children later in life. She had been an executive with JP Morgan and Associates for fifteen years before deciding to give it all up to be a stay at home mom. She was a smart, bold woman with strong opinions about the world, and she wasn’t afraid to speak her mind. She wore a pixie cut and always dressed like she was going to a casual business meeting. Her stony demeanor was undercut by her soft voice and kind blue eyes.

  I enjoyed the camaraderie and friendship given to me by these women. We got together as much as we could, including the occasional barbeque on the weekend, when we brought along our husbands. There would always be plenty of hot dogs, hamburgers, cold beers, and great conversation to be had.

  This trip was the first for our group, and we were really looking forward to getting away from it all. That was until Annie fell down her front porch steps. She had tripped on a Lego and broke her ankle in two places.

  But that didn’t happen…did it?

  Her ankle was perfectly fine and we were going on the trip….

  I re-steadied myself before I spoke, not wanting to flag Jamie that something could potentially be wrong.

  “Oh, sorry Jamie…I don’t know where that came from…I guess I’m just a little out of it today…” I said it as lightheartedly as I could, surprised at my own acting ability.

  She didn’t respond.

  I gave a loud fake laugh, intent on changing the subject. “Anyway, I will send you the deposit through Venmo or something today. Cross my heart!”

  “That’s fine… as long as you’re sure you are okay?” I could hear the worry still in her voice.

  “Yes! I am fine!” I said emphatically.

  That seemed to appease her and we talked for several more minutes, exchanging the latest on our kids.

  After we hung up, I sat in the parking lot staring out the window, thinking again about Annie. The more I thought about the memory, the more difficult it was to place.

  Could it be another thing from the dream?

  I put the car in drive, and as I pulled forward, I nearly ran over a little old lady that had stepped in front of me, carrying red dancing shoes. I jammed on the brakes, causing my bag of paints to fall and spill out all over the floor board.

  The old lady gave me a disapproving look before continuing on toward the building.

  Every year around this time, we always went to Bentley’s Farm in Huntersville to pick strawberries. It had become a family tradition of sorts, something we all looked forward to each year, and I always got enough strawberries to freeze and use throughout the entire year.

  Today was the day. Ben had gone to work for a half day, and I was expecting him to be back around lunchtime. The boys waited on the front porch for him to arrive. They sat together on the top step, side by side. One just a little smaller than the other.

  I got out my phone and snapped a picture.

  Brothers. Captured in time.

  I was busy packing our picnic lunch when they came running in the door yelling, “Daddy’s home!”

  Ben appeared in the doorway moments behind them, coming straight into the kitchen to give me a warm kiss, promising to be ready in a few short minutes. The boys followed him all the way up to our room, to ensure his speediness.

  On the drive there, we opened the windows and welcomed the fresh spring air in as it swirled around the car. Filling it with the fragrances of honeysuckles and wisteria as we drove down the road. As we passed by houses, the smell of freshly cut grass joined the medley and I sighed.

  That scent brought back many childhood memories.

  Good memories. Before my dad left.

  When Mom used smile all the time.

  I could still see her, with permed hair, in her crop top, high waisted shorts, and oversized sunglasses, working in the flower beds, while Dad cut the grass with a push mower. Mandi and I would play with our dolls on the front porch. The smell of the cut grass thick in the air. Mom would come out and bring us lemonade in tall glass cups.

  I could still taste the tartness on my tongue.

  Those were happy days for us. When everything was right in the world of two little girls.

  I looked over at Ben and then back at my boys and smiled, thankful for my own happy family.

  Ben turned on the radio to our favorite Motown station. He turned it up louder as we all sang along. The boys sang too, getting most of the words wrong, making me laugh.

  “We are raising our boys right. On good classic music,” Ben said, with a tone of deep satisfaction.

  I nodded my head in agreement.

  We drove on, passing by landscape, lush and deep. The highway stretched through the countryside, comforting and familiar, passing by fields boasting of cows and horses grazing happily on spring grasses. Driving by white farmhouses with wide welcoming porches and red barns, buzzing with activity. Springtime planting well underway. Soon, the fields gave way to patches of pine forests, stretching for miles.

  Finally, we arrived at the farm’s entrance, tires crunching on gravel. We found a parking spot next to a fifteen-foot-tall strawberry statue. Faded from years of sun exposure, but it still held impression. There was no mistaking what you were here for.

  After we parked the car, the boys got out and ran to the back of the car to get their baskets for picking. Ben was right behind them.

  When I came around to where they were, I saw Ben crouched down, eye level with the boys, lecturing them on what good behavior was and wasn’t.

  They both squirmed, adamantly repeating back to him, “I know…I know…”

  Ben looked up at me and smiled. “They know…” We both laughed, our eyes meeting for a just a moment.

  I grabbed the cooler with our lunch from the trunk and headed toward the picnic tables just outside of the main entrance to the farm.

  I spread a soft, blue and white, gingham tablecloth over a worn, wooden table that sat next to a large hand-painted sign, listing of all the ways you could use the strawberries you picked. Strawberry Jam, Strawberry pie, Strawberry Chutney, Strawberry salad and the list went on.

  We ate lazily, while the sunshine warmed our faces and the bees buzzed by in search of sweetness. The boys chattered on about who was stronger, Batman or Spiderman? Ben kept chiming in on both sides of the argument, just to see them get worked up. Each time he did it, he would look back at me and wink.

  After eating, we meandered the strawberry fields, picking sun-warmed, ripened fruit. The boys’ fingers turning red with juice as they taste tested every other one that they picked. Scissor-tailed Swallows swooped over us repeatedly in a seemingly synchronized dance, in a bright cloudless sky.

  Ben walked beside me in a comforting silence as the boys endlessly searched for the most delectable juicy berries, bright and ready for the picking.

  Before long, the boys grew tired, their faces flushed with the warmth of the afternoon.

  They lagged behind, as we headed back to the car, and fell asleep before we even hit the highway. Ben and I looked at each other and smiled as a deep satisfaction flowed through me.

  On the drive back, Ben and I talked in hushed tone, as to not wake them.

  “Oh, I forgot to ask you!” he said in a rush. “Did you hear about t
he Magnolia Bakery?”

  “No, I didn’t….” I responded, curiously.

  “Apparently, they had a huge kitchen fire and it destroyed all of their expensive equipment. No insurance either. Somehow their policy had lapsed and no one knew. From what I am hearing, this may put them out of business for good.”

  My heart lurched forward.

  Did he really just say that Magnolia Bakery was closing down? From a kitchen fire?

  My breath grew shallow as I tried to process the reality of what he said.

  I stared out the window as we passed the familiar landscape.

  Ben was still going on about what a shame it was for such a great bakery to be going out of business and didn’t notice that I wasn’t responding to him.

  He finally noticed my silence and asked, “Claire, is everything okay?”

  I didn’t answer. I couldn’t.

  “What are you thinking about?” he pressed.

  “Nothing…” I finally answered, knowing it was a lie.

  “Sure was a nice day, wasn’t it?” he offered with a smile.

  I wished I could share in his sentiment, but my day had turned on a dime.

  My mind on the news that the bakery was closing.

  It was a coincidence, right? It couldn’t possibly mean anything at all. In the dream they had closed, yes. From a kitchen fire, yes. But didn’t that mean anything else, did it? I decided to go with no. It didn’t mean anything at all. Nothing at all.

  I looked over at Ben, and a cold chill went down my spine.

  Chapter 9

  Oliver crawled up to the front seat to give me a kiss before jumping out the car, with Grayson right behind him.

  The carpool line for school had been longer today.

  Or maybe it just felt longer.

  After I got home, I found myself standing at the counter eating strawberries, firm and juicy, feeling troubled in the wake of the news about the bakery fire.

  The thought of it was beginning to consume me. Pushing aside all rationality.