He paused for a moment, taking in my words. Then his head bobbed backward as though he’d been punched in the face with the truth. “I don’t know.”
“Try,” I said. “Or else we can’t see each other again.”
He shrugged. “I’m just the guy trying to get the girl.”
“Well, I’m not a girl, and I don’t want to getgot. So can we justenjoy the night as two people who are grateful to be alive, who’ve been through a lot of stuff, and who like art? No pressure?”
Richard took a drink of his wine. “You’re switching up the rules. But I like it. Takes the pressure off me, too.”
“Wonderful.” I sighed. “I’m sorry I was so blunt.”
I silently chastised myself for apologizing. Habits.
He laughed. “I don’t think I would have truly heard you if you hadn’t been blunt.”
The spry crinkle in his eyes told me hehadactually heard me. I mean, it was a shame I had to break it down for him like that, but it felt good to be clear about what I needed and what I didn’t need. Him clawing on me and making passes all night would have only made a tough day worse.
“Thank you,” I said, relieved by his response. We left the mockingbird alone and walked into a room just off the main corridor. The scents of old wood and fresh paint mingled in the air.
“This was the library,” I remembered. “My grandmother brought me here once. Did you ever visit Dr. Maynard’s house?”
“No. Two different sides of the tracks,” he said.
“Guess you’re right about that.”
The next room we entered was slightly smaller than the others—intimate, almost. An overhead chandelier cast a gentle shadow across the floorboards. The walls were adorned with an array of paintings that felt deeply personal. This space retained the aura of quiet reflection, the books replaced by canvases of varying sizes. Some abstracts, others unbelievably realistic. Each telling its own story.
As we meandered through the room, our conversation flowed from one artwork to another. It was easy, like slipping into an old pair of shoes. The servers, moving gracefully through the space,offered trays of hors d’oeuvres and wine, which we took with gratitude. The wine, rich and smooth, seemed to ease the remnants of tension between us.
Somewhere between the abstract landscapes and the watercolor portraits, I found myself talking freely about my impressions of each piece.
Richard had a vast vocabulary when he wasn’t busy impersonating Casanova.
It was amid this backdrop of eased defenses and shared appreciation for the art that we stopped in front of a small, somewhat melancholy work. The impressionistic oil painting depicted a single figure standing at the edge of a pier, looking out over a gray, tumultuous sea. The isolation and longing in the figure’s posture resonated with me, mirroring the emotions swirling within.
Maybe it was the wine or the casualness that Richard and I both sank into during that hour, but I found myself opening up to him. “I’ve got so much to figure out, Richard. With my daughter. And my finances,” I confessed, feeling vulnerable. “I really need to get the kitchen up to par and finish the construction at my duplex, but I’m going to need a job to pull it off. Can you believe it? Working again after retirement?”
“No offense, but I don’t see the point in retiring, so long as you’ve got your mind and your health. That’s why I never stopped working,” he said. “Everybody I know either dies or finds a part-time gig after retirement.”
I supposed he was trying to make me feel like less of failure for having to return to work, especially after all the hoopla people made over retirement. So I tried to force a smile, but it didn’t work.
Richard’s expression softened, and his voice was gentle as he spoke. “You said earlier that we’ve both been through a lot.”
“We have.”
He sipped from his glass. “All those trials and struggles made us stronger. Right?”
“Yeah. They did.” I patted his arm.
“We come from a generation that knows how to make things work. How to dig in—work hard, keep trying, keep our faith. I feel sorry for kids these days. Everything’s so convenient. They don’t get to make as many mistakes as we did, you know? They ride the train to the top without trekking up the mountain. But they haven’t developed the stamina, and their lungs haven’t had the chance to gradually adjust along the way. So they can’t enjoy the top because they took the convenient shortcut to get there.”
“Hmmm…” I thought about Gabriella and how she had left the square when it was clear she wouldn’t win. She was crushed by the judges’ reaction to her last-minute platter. This experience was part of her mountain trek, I reckoned.
“Richard,” I said, pausing in front of a vibrant painting of wildflowers, “thank you for being here tonight and for listening. As afriend. It means a lot.”
“Of course, Joyce,” he replied, his eyes sincere.
As Richard and I continued walking through the gallery, we approached a vendor selling various handcrafted items. He picked up a simple beaded bracelet and handed it to me. The white squares with black capital letters spelled out the wordstrength.
