my chest; tears rose. These beautiful songs were written by this beautiful boy I had once known and loved. An hour and a half later, I pulled off the exit to River Street, hit the REPLAY button, and parked in a metered spot to hear the song “Flying” one more time. I closed my eyes and leaned my head back on the headrest. A pan flute played in the background with a lyrical sound as delicate as engraved crystal.
When the song was over, the rain had dissipated. I reached behind the seat and grabbed my purse, tossed it over my shoulder. There were three hours remaining until the concert, and the headache forming around my temples was hunger’s signal.
My boots clicked in a staccato sound down the cobblestone sidewalk of River Street. I rounded the corner to an antique garden store, walked in and found myself asking about garden angels—did they have any?
A sweet woman, as round and red as a strawberry, escorted me to the back area, where garden statues of every variety stood at odd angles, reminding me of every bad movie I’d seen where children who were hoping to be adopted stood in a room with pleading eyes, facing prospective parents. There wasn’t a small angel in sight. I turned away and walked back into the store, browsing the garden accessories.
“Where would I find the closest café?” I asked the shop owner.
“Two doors down to the right.” She waved out the door. “Best brie and apple sandwich I’ve ever eaten. And trust me”—she patted her abdomen—“I’ve eaten in a lot of places.” She smiled and I smiled back at her.
Outside I glanced at the sky. A thin veil resembling a screen ripped from a porch door advanced toward me: a wall of rain. The café was two doors up, the car two blocks down. I ducked my head just as the downpour hit me with its full force. I ran toward the café, my scarf pulled up in a futile attempt to shield my hair.
I burst through the door of the café and wiped the dripping rain from my eyes. Several faces in the room turned to me and smiled. It was a French-style café, with open sides and covered roof, where the tables were set far enough back to stay dry. A girl wearing all black, who appeared to be no more than eighteen, walked toward me. She had an earring in her nose and at least six in each earlobe. I smiled and attempted to wipe the hair off my face.
She laughed. “Wet out there?”
“Just a little, not so much.” I shook water off my hands.
She laughed loudly, and more patrons turned to us. There was a table directly in front of us seating six people: four men, two women. I turned away, as I’d been taught better than to stare.
The girl lifted a menu. “Only one at your table?”
“Yes.” I held my purse with both hands over my chest. “Only one.”
She motioned for me to follow her and I did, but I couldn’t help glancing toward that table of six. They all had large, dark beers with heads at least an inch thick. All of them were laughing. Their table looked like a fun, safe place to be. I sighed and caught a glimpse of myself in the passing mirror. My hair was stuck in wet strands against my face, and mascara had pooled under my eyes. I looked away. I was such a fool for leaving my umbrella in the car, and I hadn’t brought a change of clothes or more makeup.
As we scooted past the table, I wiped mascara from below my eyes. One of the men seated there, his eyes dark and gold, glanced at me. His hair hung in thick waves, stubble on his chin and cheeks. My chest opened as if someone had blown a breath of luxurious coastal air into me; my stomach sank.
I meant to turn away from his stare, but couldn’t. He raised his hand to push the hair out of his eyes. A leather bracelet encircled his wrist, braided and intricate in a Celtic design. I noted each detail: his hair, his goatee, his eyes, his bracelet. It wasn’t until I turned away and saw his reflection behind me in the mirror that I could see the whole of him, not just the pieces.
Jack Sullivan.
Surely I was imagining him. Maeve had said something about thinking of things and they come, they happen; about following your