by Elsa Kurt
Chapter 2
WILLIAM
February 1982 Syria
“I am an American journalist. There are three of us. Send help. Hurry.”
It was no use; the line crackled, hissed, then went dead. Gunfire rang out in short, staccato bursts. Each time, Emelia’s grip on William’s arm tightened. He was aware of nails cutting into his flesh, the acrid odor in the air, the shouts, the cries. Sweat beaded at his temples then ran down his cheeks.
Emelia’s voice, barely above a whisper. “No one is coming for us, William. What are we going to do?”
“Stay put. That’s all we can do,” he hissed back. He pulled her closer, inhaling her scent—chamomile—and they shrank back into the shadows of the half-demolished building.
Aland, their guide, tugged his other arm. “If they’ve bracketed us—if we stay here—we die, Mr. Grant.”
“What do you suggest we do, Aland? You brought us into the heart of a—”
“Shh,” Emelia hissed.
An eerie silence—a lull or perhaps a cease in the shouts and gunfire—fell over the street. They chanced peeking out around the slab of jagged concrete that was once a wall and could see bloodied, lifeless bodies strewn like discarded dolls in the dirt. Twenty more minutes passed; the ringing silence continued but for muffled moans out in the street. A child’s cry suddenly echoed against what was left of the buildings. Emelia jumped toward the opening, her eyes ablaze.
“Miss Emelia, no! It’s too soon to go out there. We must—” Aland’s warning went unheeded. She pulled the hijab around her face and stepped out into the merciless sunlight. William knew there was no telling Emelia Lassandro what to do. He also knew that the photojournalist in her would never forgive him if he didn’t capture the scenes—horrific as they were—for their documentary.
“She is quite aware, Aland. But this is what we do,” William said just before he followed her out, camera poised and clicking repeatedly.
The child, no more than three, stood further down, in the center of the street, her black hair sweat-soaked and matted to her tear- and dirt-streaked cheeks. Her fingers were in her mouth, and her tiny body shuddered with shock. Emelia knelt before the girl, took her hand, and spoke soothing but rapid Arabic. All the while, William’s camera clicked. Emelia embracing the child—click. Emelia standing, holding the girl tightly, pressing her small head to her chest, running toward William—click, click, click, click. Emelia looking straight into the camera’s lens—click.
They were perhaps twenty or thirty yards away. William raised his camera again. A sound like a helicopter blade’s whomp swallowed the air. The ringing in William’s ears grew louder. It happened so fast. One moment Emelia and the girl were there, the next, everything went red, then black. Mercifully black.
The explosion had thrown him backward, knocking him unconscious. Blood trickled from his ears, and a piece of shrapnel gouged his left thigh. But otherwise, he was fine. That’s what the medic told him, anyway. William was not fine, though. Not after Syria. After Emelia…
Chapter 3
UNDERNEATH THE THINGS WE SEE
“Charles? Char-els! She’s waiting for your order, dear.”
“Wha-what? Oh, hello, lovely. Waiting on me, are you?”
“No problem, Mr. Bright—”
“Nonsense. Don’t encourage him, dear,” said Mrs. Brightsider. Mae wasn’t sure if she should laugh or say, “Yes, ma’am.” She compromised the two and smiled while she nodded. Mrs. B continued without missing a beat, “We all know you’re going to order the cilantro-lime salmon and pilaf, Charles. It’s what you order every time it’s on the menu.”
“I might want something different. The buffalo burger, for instance. Hmm, now doesn’t that sound delectable?” He said this to himself, not to Georgie. Or Mae, for that matter. Mae finally let out a chuckle when Charles made a show of lowering his rimless readers—cheaters, Georgie called them—raised his sparse silver eyebrows and tapped the paper menu. “Tell me about the tuna Nicoise, will you?” Charles’s pale blue eyes gazed up expectantly, a small smile turning up the corners of his wide mouth with barely contained mischief.
“I would be delighted, sir. I make the Nicoise with fresh organic green beans—picked this morning from the garden—and red onions, also organic, and the tuna came from—”
“Mae, why on earth do you let him do this to you?”
Mae laughed at Georgie’s mock exasperation and Charles’s mock indignation. It was a wonderful sound, full and unaffected—one that made the surrounding patrons smile too. “Mrs. Brightsider, you know I love our routine just as much as he does.” It was easy to see that it was true; Mae’s smile was genuine, as was her fondness for Mr. Brightsider in particular. “No one appreciates my garden as much as Charles Brightsider and I do, you know.”
“Well, you’re a dear for letting him putter around. Keeps him out of my garden, so I do appreciate it,” said Mrs. Brightsider. Her exasperation was contradicted by the loving gaze she bestowed on her husband.
“Oh, I love Mr. B’s Sunday visits. It sparks joy every time I spy him out there from the kitchen window tending to those untidy rows. It’s even better when I can hear him over the grill and fan singing Puccini to the veggies. Say what you will, but my plants had never produced nearly as much as they do since he’s been singing to them.”
“You’re a good girl, Mae. Let’s go with the salmon, shall we? The cilantro is fresh, I’m sure?”
“Of course, Mr. Brightsider. I’ll get you some more water too.”
Mae started to walk away, but Georgie put her hand on her arm, halting her. “Has she—have you seen her lately?”
Mae shook her head, took a quick look around—pausing a beat longer on William—and said in a low tone, “Not in a couple days. Don’t worry, she’s a tough little…thing.”
Georgie patted her arm and nodded, her eyes falling to her napkin. Mae moved in to put her tan arm around Georgie Brightsider’s bony, slightly humped shoulders and perhaps give a gentle squeeze. But then she glanced at Charles. He gave a small shake of his head and flapped his hand a bit. Go on, the gesture said, she’ll be fine in a moment. Mae bobbed her head and retreated to the kitchen, seemingly relieved.
The Brightsiders had no children. They lived in a sun-washed, pale yellow Cape Cod on Robbins Lane, about a block away from the café and six houses down from Mae. They walked there three times a week—breakfast on Saturdays and Sundays, lunch on Tuesdays. Charles was seventy-three, and Georgina “Georgie” Brightsider, seventy-one. She was a retired school teacher, he a violinist. If they ever had visitors, or if they had friends, Mae had never seen or heard about them. By all accounts, the Brightsiders were alone in the world. Not that they ever seemed to mind, Mae was quick to add. Or they didn’t until she came along. Damn Feather Anne. She kept that part to herself.
“Here you go, Mr. Brightsider. Yours will be right out, Mrs. Brightsider. Hey, I was thinking of doing another one of those Open Mic nights. Maybe even make it a regular thing. Think you’d come back and play some violin for us?”
“Oh, Mae! That’s a delightful idea. I would love to. If you promise to sing with me, that is.” Charles winked, and when she agreed, he clapped his hands together and beamed up at Mae.
Charles Brightsider was still quite handsome in his later years. A full head of white-blond hair, a firm, square, Clint Eastwood jaw, and eyes that always had a merry twinkle. Like he knew some fabulous joke and he was about to tell it to you. It was easy to see why Mae looked happy the minute he walked through the door. Warm, charming, grandfatherly. He was also a man soundly in love with his wife, unafraid to show it.
Mrs. Brightsider didn’t give the same warm and fuzzy feeling. Not that she wasn’t wonderful in her own right. But she had that school teacher air—the one that made those around her use proper English, enunciate, and say things like “yes, ma’am” when she asked a question. She carried herself with an air of refinement and regality. Her flaxen hair was pin strai
ght, smooth, and cut in a neat bob that rested just above her shoulders. Her face showed the effects of time and oceanside living—creases and lines, freckles and faint sunspots—but her eyes, like her husbands, were bright and clear and a pretty shade of cornflower blue. She sat as ramrod straight as her bowed back would allow and wore soft cardigans and flowing skirts with sensible flats. She drank Earl Grey tea with her pinkie up.
Mae—in between customers, of course—mused to William that it’s difficult not to imagine that they’d have been great parents. The kind who took their children to museums and art galleries and brought them to see musicals. The kind who raised doctors and nuclear engineers who move away and come back to visit every holiday with their perfectly behaved children and SUVs loaded with gifts and baby gear. They’d call him Pop, and her Mother, and they’d all come into the café for one or the other’s birthday. But that was not their life.
Instead, the Brightsiders had two Cavalier King Charles spaniels, Mabel and Rufus, who they mutually doted on. Once a month, Georgie and Charles brought Mabel and Rufus to the groomers up the street from Mae’s Cafe—The Groomery, owned by Hanna Harper. When they passed by the café—always on a Wednesday at eleven a.m.—Mae would go out with two homemade dog biscuits and two cups of coffee. Each time, Charles and Georgie exclaim, “Oh, now, aren’t you sweet,” and the dogs accepted their treats precisely the way animals named for royalty would. Life for the Brightsiders—for as far as anyone could see—was one of routine and contentment.
“But are they happy, Mae?” asked William. “The silences in their house—are they pleasing or deafening, do you think? Do they pass by each other in the kitchen and smile, or have they become fixtures like lamps and cabinets—things you look at but don’t see?”
Mae cast a glance at the Brightsiders and frowned, her brow troubled. This was a question she’d perhaps never considered before now. But that was the question, wasn’t it? Not just of the Brightsiders, but of everyone. What was underneath the things we saw? Who were we when no one was looking? Who is Mae Huxley when no one is looking? wondered William.
“Oh, William. I wish you hadn’t asked that. I can’t bear to think of them unhappy. No, I won’t think it. They have something better than happiness.”
“Better than happiness, Mae? What could be better than that?” William was puzzled. And intrigued.
“They have joy, William. Look. Can’t you see it on them?”
William looked around Mae at the pair. He noted their body language—both leaning in toward one another—and their expressions bore nothing less than contentment. Charles Brightsider’s long legs were stretched out into his wife’s space, and she was shifted to give him the room he needed. For reasons William couldn’t know, they switched coffee cups. She took a sip then nodded gratefully at her husband. The couple, William saw, existed in perfect symbiosis. He bowed in deference to Mae’s better understanding.
“They have joy,” he agreed quietly.
Mae beamed at William. He understood. No one ever understood, but here was this foreign man getting Mae.
Chapter 4
PLAYING MATCHMAKER
The sun of a new summer day had risen over Chance. William had been there for just over a week, and the strangers had started to become familiar to him. With his worn satchel thumping against his denim-clad thigh and the dew-damp grass dampening his loafers, he made his way across the center green to the café from the only Bed and Breakfast in town. He passed Mae on the patio, gently touching her shoulder as he did and nodding. She was in the midst of greeting another customer but turned to wink at him. Cheeky girl, William thought with a smile. He took an inconspicuous spot in the shaded corner of the patio, where he could both see and hear the goings on indoors and out. He listened as Mae made easy banter with her customers.
“Hello, Rosabelle. You’re early today. Inside or outside?”
“I—yes, it’s such a nice day out. I thought maybe, well, I think I’ll sit outside today?”
“Wherever you like. I’m just waiting for the Brightsiders to come by with the dogs.” Mae pulled a heavy wrought iron chair by the door and called into the café, “Bruce? If you’re still back there, could you grab a water and a menu for Rosabelle? I’m going to sit outside for a few.”
“Yep,” he replied. His short answer spoke volumes to Mae.
“Never mind, I’ll come in for it.”
This was usually the weekday morning lull. Ten-thirty to eleven forty-five or so. Then the lunch crowd would start filtering in. Bruce enjoyed the food prep—chopping vegetables, starting salad dishes, slicing bread—so Mae had given over that task. He did it the way she taught him, so she didn’t micro-manage him anymore. Not as much, at least. Sometimes he forgot the herbs in the salads, though. Once the Brightsiders passed by, she’d go in back and check.
William observed Rosabelle Waterman. She was like a skittish kitten, indecisive about which table to choose. She began compulsively tucking long, limp strands of light brown hair behind her ears, gnawing a fingernail, darting glances around the patio—all while avoiding William’s eye—before she shuffled to a table farthest from the only other patron. She sat in a chair facing south—affording William view of her profile—and set her oversized tote in her lap.
Mae looked at the time and stood, saying to no one in particular, “It’s about time to pour the coffees.” She felt around her apron. “Biscuits ready.”
The Brightsiders strolled up right on schedule. Mr. B exclaimed, “There’s our girl! Good morning, Mae. Rufus and Mabel started pulling the moment we hit Old Main Street.”
“I think Charles did too, dear. Fancies himself a lady’s man,” added Mrs. B.
“I am, you know. Or I was before this one lassoed me. Don’t fret, darling wife, I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
Mrs. B rolled her eyes and scoffed. “As if you’d have a choice. Silly man. Take your coffee, say thank you.”
“Thank you, dear girl.”
Mae curtsied and giggled. “You’re most welcome, dear sir.”
“There you go, encouraging him again, Mae.”
“Sorry, Mrs. B. So will you guys be at the Old Main Festival?”
“Wouldn’t miss it, would we, Georgie?”
“Oh, no. Wouldn’t dream of it. Mabel, Rufus, behave yourselves!”
“Aw, they’re fine. Here, you two. One biscuit for each.”
“All right, off we go. See you Saturday, dear.”
After they’d walked on, Mae stopped at William’s table with coffee. “They’re cute, aren’t they? Looks like Rosabelle’s ready to order. Be right back.”
“How’re the new bookmarks coming along, Rosabelle? I sold a few more the other day.”
“Oh, fine. It’s good, thank you. The pharmacy just ordered fifty more. They’re giving me my own display rack.”
“That’s awesome. I’m happy for you. You’ve got a real talent, you know.”
Rosabelle blushed almost scarlet and looked down to her lap and said, “It’s all thanks to you, Mae. I’d have never gone in there myself to ask them.”
“Oh, no need to thank me. You’ve got so much talent, Rosabelle. People need to see your work. Oops, you don’t have the specials. Hang on.” She leaned in through the doorway and called, “Bruce, can you bring out the specials for Rosabelle?” Then Mae sat down with William, who had been watching quietly.
“You are quite the good Samaritan, aren’t you? Is there anyone in town you don’t help?”
She breezed past the compliment and explained, “Rosabelle makes bookmarks and greeting cards with her own artwork on them. I have the bookcases on the back wall set up for local artists and crafters to sell their wares.” She shrugged then looked intently at William as she said, “I just think everyone should have a chance to shine. I’ve been so lucky—luckier than most people. I just want to help other people live their dreams.”
William studied Mae as she watched Bruce walk out—cream-colored specials list in hand. The m
oment he set the menu down, Rosabelle began to fastidiously search her purse until he walked away again. When Bruce passed William’s table, he shot a daggered glance from a face set like stone.
Mae leaned in to whisper. Her lips almost touched William’s stubble-rough cheek, and her hand curled around his wrist. She said in a low voice, “One more thing about Rosabelle. We went to high school together. She was a class ahead of me. Did all she could to be invisible. She sat in the back row of every class, terrified of being called on. I’m not sure the teachers even knew she was there. Poor thing.”
William turned slightly, letting his cheek touch Mae’s. His voice was low and vibrated against Mae’s ear. “But you noticed her, Mae. Why is that?” He felt her small hand give a quick, involuntary squeeze.
They breathed against each other, neither making a move to pull away. The chirp of a car alarm broke the spell, and Mae was the first to pull back, but she let her skin graze him as she did. William noted that her cheeks were flushed, her eyes bright. Mae’s uncertain, questioning stare dropped from his eyes to the soft smile on his lips. Yes, she was flirting with him, but she couldn’t help but wonder if he was toying with her.
“Mae.” Bruce, in the doorway, gave her a sharp look and cut his eyes to Rosabelle. She rolled her eyes at him, shrugged apologetically at William, and jumped up to check on Rosabelle.
Rosabelle was the kind of girl who faded into the woodwork. The kind people forget they ever knew, or when they did remember, they’d say, “Rosabelle? Oh, was she that mousy girl from my English lit class?” Or, “Rosabelle? Is that the girl who always wore that ugly, baggy brown sweater?” They’d shrug then add that they’d never actually talked to her or heard her speak for that matter. Mae was fascinated by her. She felt a sort of kinship to the odd, quiet girl. They both didn’t fit in anywhere. Mae was just bolder about it. She wore her nonconformity like a suit of armor, daring people to mock her. They didn’t, though. She was the girl with the openly gay dad, after all. She was expected to be weird.