The screen door squeaked as he let himself inside, and he heard the scrape of one of her kitchen chairs before she appeared at the end of the hall.
Christ, her face. So beautiful, this woman. Radiant. Everything loosened in his body.
In the kitchen, he kissed her, sucked in the warm tomato-and-garlic air, and accepted the plate she pushed at him. He loved the way she made him sit across from her, their feet entwined beneath the table.
Afterward, they went out to the porch, where she lit a ton of candles, and he settled onto the wicker sofa they’d shared yesterday morning. George disappeared, and a minute later, guitar music curled from a speaker in the kitchen. She came back onto the porch on quiet bare feet, a tin of cookies in hand. She took one, handed him the rest with a smile, and curled up on the armchair across from him.
“What you doing all the way over there?” he asked, all heavy and warm.
She shrugged. “You looked content on your own. I didn’t want to disturb that.”
They sat for a while, taking in the fading light apart, but together.
George finally spoke. “Thank you for all the work you’ve been doing.”
“Sure.”
“You’re a miracle worker,” she said, facing the darkening yard. “The garden has never looked so pruned. And the steps… Usually, I feel like I’m channeling those women from Grey Gardens.”
“What’s that?”
“It’s a movie, based on a true story. Actually, a documentary originally. These women live in their massive old mansion while it falls to pieces around them. They have mental health issues, and it’s tragic,” she finished with a big breath and a forced smile. “Anyway, I’ve got too many projects.”
“What? You? Nah.”
“Yes. And don’t lie to make me feel better.”
“Am I one of those projects?” he asked, going for nonchalant but feeling anything but.
She looked him straight in the eye. “No.”
He didn’t believe her but decided to let it go. Sometimes it was better not to delve too deeply into a person’s reasons. He, of all people, with his experience of the darker side of humanity, should know that.
He changed the subject. “Who is this?”
“The music? David Gray.”
“This is old, isn’t it? From the nineties, right? Your musical taste is stuck like twenty years ago.”
“Really? Usually it’s more like forty.”
“Well, whatever decade you’re from,” he said, squinting at her, “you, Dr. Hadley, are an old soul.”
“Practical, stoic Clay Navarro believes in souls? Intriguing.”
“I’m perceptive.” He put on a defensive voice but softened it with a grin. “Sometimes.”
“I know that” was her only response before they disappeared back into their heads, soaking in the earthy smells of the garden and the sad strains of the music against the night’s never-ending soundtrack, all of it bathed in candlelight.
After a bit, another song came on, one he kind of recognized from back in his young and sentimental days—high, soft guitar chords, intense but quiet. He closed his eyes and let it affect him. Let the music work its way under his skin, pricking through his eyeballs and somewhere inside his chest.
It got more rhythmic, swingy like a lullaby. His skin burned with recognition, and then the words slid out, warm and sad and sweet and straight from the memory of his sister’s CD player.
His skin pebbled over.
So much noise in life, Clay thought. So much, so fucking much. In stereo, all over, everywhere, layers upon layers of it, enough to smother you.
He tuned back into the music, listened to the words, which didn’t make sense alone, but with the strumming guitar, this woman, this ache… He was in a bubble that only a soothing voice, a practical white hand, a warm pair of sparkling green eyes could pierce, and then…and then he was a balloon losing air, wheezing until there was nothing left. Empty. He kept his eyes closed tight, not wanting to listen, but needing the rest of the song, the high, plaintive call to God, over and over until…
