using me for balance as she slipped off her boots. It was, perhaps, her touch that emboldened me to really look at her, and though I saw the mysteriousness and maturity that had always made her attractive, I noticed a hint of sadness and reticence as well. To my aching heart, the combination made her even more beautiful.
Nineteen
Her small kitchen was what one would expect from an old house that had probably been remodeled half a dozen times over the last century: ancient linoleum floors that were peeling slightly near the walls; functional, unadorned white cabinets—thick with countless paint jobs—and a stainless-steel sink set beneath a wood-framed window that probably should have been replaced years ago. The countertop was cracking, and against one wall stood a woodstove as old as the house itself. In places, it was possible to see the modern world encroaching: a large refrigerator and dishwasher near the sink; a microwave propped kitty-corner near a half-empty bottle of red wine. In some ways, it reminded me of my dad’s place.
Savannah opened a cupboard and removed a wineglass. “Would you like a glass of wine?”
I shook my head. “I’ve never been much of a wine drinker.”
I was surprised when she didn’t return the glass. Instead, she retrieved the half-empty bottle of wine and poured a glass; she set the glass on the table and took a seat before it.
We sat at the table as Savannah took a sip.
“You’ve changed,” I observed.
She shrugged. “A lot of things have changed since I last saw you.”
She said nothing more and set her glass back on the table. When she spoke again, her voice was subdued. “I never thought I’d be the kind of person who looked forward to a glass of wine in the evenings, but I do.”
She began rotating the glass on the table, and I found myself wondering what had happened to her.
“You know the funny thing?” she said. “I actually care how it tastes. When I had my first glass, I didn’t know what was good or what was bad. Now when it comes to buying, I’ve become pretty selective.”
I didn’t fully recognize the woman who sat before me, and I wasn’t sure how to respond.
“Don’t get me wrong,” she went on. “I still remember everything my folks taught me, and I hardly ever have more than a glass a night. But since Jesus himself turned water into wine, I figured that it can’t be much of a sin.”
I smiled at her logic, recognizing how unfair it was to cling to the time-capsule version I held of her. “I wasn’t asking.”
“I know,” she said. “But you were wondering.”
For a moment, the only sound in the kitchen was the low hum of the refrigerator. “I’m sorry about your dad,” she said, tracing a crack in the tabletop. “I really am. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve thought about him in the past few years.”
“Thank you,” I said.
Savannah began rotating her glass again, seemingly lost in the swirl of liquid. “Do you want to talk about it?” she asked.
I wasn’t sure I did, but as I leaned back in my chair, the words came surprisingly easily. I told her about my dad’s first heart attack, and the second, and the visits we’d shared in the past couple of years. I told her about our growing friendship, and the comfort I felt with him, the walks that he began taking and then eventually gave up. I recounted my final days with him and the agony of committing him to an extended care facility. When I described the funeral and the photograph I found in the envelope, she reached for my hand.
“I’m glad he saved it for you,” she said, “but I’m not surprised.”
“I was,” I said, and she laughed. It was a reassuring sound.
She squeezed my hand. “I wish I’d have known. I would have liked to go to the funeral.”
“It wasn’t much.”
“It didn’t have to be. He was your dad, and that’s all that matters.” She hesitated before releasing my hand and took another sip of wine.
“Are you ready to eat?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” I said, flushing at the memory of her earlier comment.
She leaned forward with a grin. “How about I heat you up a plate of stew and we’ll see what happens.”
“Is it any good?” I asked. “I mean . . . when I knew you before, you never mentioned that you knew how to cook.”
“It’s our special family recipe,” she said, pretending to be