His face falls, but he rallies quickly.
“Well, at least I ended up with the painting. If you give me your name and number, I’ll Venmo you.”
“Nice try, Edward, but the painting’s a gift.”
“And I suppose I’ll have to be satisfied with that.”
We’ve reached a fork in the trail. I point to my path back to the resort. “This is me.”
He nods. “Thanks for the painting.”
“You really like it?” I ask. “Or was that just a pickup line?”
“I don’t do pick up lines,” he says bluntly. I can’t help but smile.
I’ve never had a guy ask me out so fast after meeting me. I can usually quell a man’s interest with a cold glance or an indifferent reply long before he thinks about asking me out. But Edward didn’t wait. His directness is surprisingly attractive.
But he’s still a tourist—here today, gone tomorrow. Nope, I am not up for that.
“I really like your painting. And I have this hunch that I’d really like you. Are you certain you don’t want to get dinner?” He must note my resistance crumbling. “I’ve heard there’s this place where they make the best garlic burgers.”
“Nope,” I shake my head sadly. “Can’t do it.” My mom makes the burgers he’s talking about at the park cafe. They’refamous for miles around.
“Okay, I can take a hint.” He appears absurdly disappointed, carefully holding my painting. He musters a half-smile. “I wish you nothing but the best, E.”
He puts out his hand for me to shake. I take it. The moment his skin touches mine my whole body buzzes with something unexpected. He must feel it too, because his eyes flicker with surprise. He lets go a little too quickly, gives a brief wave, and heads off, glancing back once before he disappears.
I stand for the longest time opening and closing the hand he shook, watching him disappear into the woods, already regretting turning him down.
The old gentleman died; his will was read, and like almost every other will, gave as much disappointment as pleasure. —Sense and Sensibility
1
Edward
“The Greenwood women are enchanting—utterly enchanting.” My grandfather mutters the phrase over and over as if it were an incantation. Watching his cracked lips form the words, I see two men: the confused, dying body before me, and the hale and hearty grandpa who helped raise me. A man with a thick head of white hair and mischievous eyes, he always took pride in his appearance, dressing in custom tweed suits with silk bowties and cufflinks. My grandfather never wore a shirt without French cuffs. On the hospital bed, his bony knees peek out of the flimsy gown. I tug his blanket over his veined legs, tucking him in gently, the same way he tucked me in bed as a child.
“Don’t worry, Eddie, Nora’s going to take care of me,” my grandfather mumbles as I tap a reminder on my phone to swing by his home and pick up his favorite monogrammed silk pajamas. “She’s here,” he says, motioning at the empty air beside me. The medicine is definitely making him loopy. Nora, my grandpa’s third wife, has been gone for more than thirty years.
Briefly, his eyes clear. His clawed hand grasps mine. “I’ll miss you.”
“You’re not going anywhere Grandpa.” He gives a weak laugh.
“My ride is over. The sun sets in the west.” He smiles to himself. “Enchanting.”
Inexplicably, my mind flashes back to the woman I metseveral months ago on the trail at Norland Park.Shecertainly was enchanting—her profile softly lit by the setting sun, her brown hair twisted up in a tidy knot, revealing an elegant white neck. Something about meeting her felt like stumbling upon a memory.
“Jeb’s here! Why is Jeb here?” Grandpa says in an agitated voice. “Make him go!!!” He pulls the thin hospital blanket up to his face, like a little boy hiding from a monster. Jeb is an old stuffed buffalo head hanging above the fireplace back at Grandpa’s Hotel in Norland Park. Someone named the taxidermied beast Jebediah years ago. Grandpa has always been quite fond of him. This outburst, like so many over the last few days in the hospital, is out of character.
“He won’t get you,” I assure him. “You’re safe with me.” I’ve learned not to argue with my grandpa about his delusions. It works better when I tell him everything will be okay. Even though it won’t be.
I hold his veined hand, marveling at the drastic alterations the decades have wrought on the strong hand I once knew. It has been years since I held it as a little boy walking through the crowds at the zoo or the park, or when he helped me cross the street. Back then his muscled hand dwarfed mine; now it is bony, spotted, frail and delicate—like holding a baby bird. I straighten his blanket and kiss his forehead, breathing in the distinct scent of grandpa and hospital. A lump forms in my throat. I need to get out of this place, fast.
My phone rings as I cross the lobby.
“Is he going to make it?” No hello, or how are you, which is not too surprising. My boss Lucinda isn’t exactly one for niceties.
“Of course he is,” I lie. My grandpa isn’t long for this world. I know it—he sleeps most of the day, and when he wakes, he’s rambling about enchanting women and a dead buffalo chasinghim. But I’m not ready to speak the dreadful truth that presses down on my chest. I’m afraid that simply uttering the words aloud would make them more true. I need to get Lucinda off the phone.
