“It’s beautiful here. What made you move to Concordia?”
“I’m not like Freddie.”
“Definitely not.”
“You say that like it’s a good thing.”
“I’d be concerned if you were stubborn, loud, and what I once heard a Brazilian woman call a tomcat.”
“Sounds like my brother. But I’m more of an introvert. Not a big fan of crowds and soirees.”
“So the party wasn’t your cup of tea?”
“Don’t get me wrong, I enjoy dressing up and I’m British. I love tea, but a few years ago, the winter in London was long and dark. I needed a little holiday, so I bought a train ticket.”
“If my geography serves, England is south of here, so you traveled north at that time of year?”
“No, I bought a ticket south to visit the south of France.”
“But you ended up here?”
“This is me we’re talking about. I still can’t figure out how it happened because the conductor took my ticket, but I was taking an overnight trip, so it was an obscene hour. I ended up here.”
“And fell in love,” I add, slowing down and seeing the scenery and Pippa as if for the first time. Something inside of me shifts, opens, and catches the fading light of day.
“Anyway, as you can imagine, summer arrives late in Concordia because of the northern location. But the spring thaw, followed by the rain, had ushered in a lush carpet of green alongwith countless flowers in full bloom.” Pippa stops and smells a vibrant pinkish-orange rose.
I admire her.
“I discovered my love of scent.” She exhales.
I lean close and inhale the flower. The tension in my neck and shoulders vanishes. “It reminds me of the sunsets in California. In the fall, the winds blow, painting the sky over the water impossible colors.”
Her eyes sparkle in the dwindling light of day. “It reminds me of firelight on a cool night. What about this one?” She points to a purplish flower with white streaks.
“Hmm. This one is cozy and slightly sweet.” It smells remarkably like Pippa.
“It’s the plum rose.”
She continues walking along the path, stopping every once in a while to smell the flowers.
A memory floats to the surface. “My grandfather used to always say, ‘Life is better when you stop and smell the roses.’”
“I agree.” She smiles.
“Cap, my grandfather, had a saying for every penny in his purse—that was another one of them. He had one about boys who did stupid things, too. But he didn’t have one about sponges.”
Pippa straightens from where she’d leaned over to smell a rose. “What do you mean?”
“I don’t have a saying about that either, but I do have something to say. Something important and a long time coming.”
Even though we’re stationary, Pippa wavers on the well-worn pebble stone path as though she wants to escape.
“Senior year. Springtime. Dining hall. You were strolling by with your tray.”
Her expression tightens with the kind of nervousness that sometimes zips through me. “Chase, I was distracted.”
I nod. “You tripped.”
