She’s leaning her forearms on the rail, watching the rim of light lift behind the low hills. The sun isn’t up yet.
Something in my chest shifts as I watch her.
She doesn’t see me at first. The breeze lifts the ends of her hair and pushes it back. The sweater slips off one shoulder, and she nudges it up absently, eyes still on the east.
No makeup. No kitchen armor. The same mouth I’ve been trying not to think about is soft in the cold. She looks younger and older at the same time: young because the morning is kind, older because of the stillness that surrounds her.
I stay where I am in the yard because walking closer feels like intruding on a prayer.
She finally glances down into the garden and catches me. Surprise crosses her face quickly and leaves just as fast. She doesn’t step back. She doesn’t fuss with the sweater again. She just rests her chin on her wrist and looks at me.
“Buongiorno,” she calls, softly.
“Buongiorno,” I answer.
“Couldn’t sleep?” she asks.
“Could.” I lift a shoulder. “Didn’t.”
A ghost of a smile. “Same. I’ll regret it later.”
Across the yard, a robin hops across the cool ground, finds something in the dirt, and flies away to eat in privacy.
“How do you take your coffee?” I ask her.
“Strong,” she says, “and often.”
“That I can do.”
“Let me make it,” she says automatically, reflex from a life of kitchens. Then she hesitates, remembering where we are and likely unsure of what her duties will be here. “Unless—”
“You’re a guest,” I say, settling the matter.
Her brows lift a fraction. She doesn’t answer. She rubs her hands along the wool on her forearms and looks past me at the vineyard. The sky brightens a step; the fog lifts and folds away.
“Beautiful,” she says.
“It is.”
“I forgot this smell,” she adds, inhaling. “Cold and green. Dirt and metal. Hard to get this in Atlantic City.”
“Do you miss it?” I ask.
She rests her cheek on her wrist now, hair sliding forward. My brain offers an image of that hair spread on the white of the pillow in the next room.
“Yeah,” she says. “I do.”
“Do you want to walk later?” I ask. “After we go to the city.”
“Yes,” she says without thinking. Then, “If you have time.”
“I’ll make it.”
We fall quiet again. A line of pink shows above the hills. In a minute the sun will push past, and light will hit the rows and make every drop of dew a coin.
Though she’s up there, and I’m down here, it feels like we’re watching the sunrise together.
The first edge of the sun breaks through, and the world around us warms by degree. She straightens, wraps her arms around herself, and looks down at me again.
