Blue Jeans and Coffee Beans by Joanne DeMaio Page A

purple petunias cascade from window boxes. When he stands outside her front porch, the scent of brewing coffee floats through the screen door. Noises come to him as he stops there: dishes clattering in the kitchen, water flowing from the tap, a pan placed on a stove burner. On the porch, a novel waits open on a white wicker table. A copious spray of cattails reaches from a tall ceramic vase in the corner and hurricane lanterns and starfish lean on a high shelf. Paradise is open to interpretation. A life like this, as close as the other side of a screen door, is as far removed from him as a ship on the horizon. The chink of silverware being pulled from a drawer and Maris’ voice talking to her dog has him move closer. He reaches for the lighthouse knocker and gives three good raps.
    Madison rushes to the porch, a growl rising from her throat until she sees him there. “Jason?” Maris asks, following behind the dog. When she unlatches the screen door, Madison noses herself outside and presses her muzzle into his hand while her tail never stops wagging.
    “Hey there, girl,” he says, scratching her neck. When he looks up, Maris stands holding the door, barefoot, wearing denim cutoffs and a white tank top. A gold star pendant hangs around her neck and her hair is clipped in a low ponytail. “Maris,” he says. “I hope I’m not interrupting anything.”
    “No, not at all.”
    “I know it’s early, but I wondered if we could talk.”
    “Sure. Have you had breakfast?”
    “I’m good. How about a walk instead?”
    She hesitates. “I just poured my coffee.” She holds the screen door open and he steps onto her porch with Madison close at his feet. “Come on in the kitchen,” she says as she walks through the cottage.
    He follows Maris through the living room, looking for any familiarity in the décor. A sofa is slipcovered in navy and white stripes; fashion sketches cover an old cherry drop-leaf coffee table; a white painted cabinet sits at the stair balustrade and large square paned windows line the staircase wall.
    “This is a great place you’re renting,” he says as he walks into the kitchen.
    “I love it here.” She motions for him to take a seat at the breakfast island. Bunches of dried herbs hang from exposed ceiling beams. Soft strains from the local jazz station rise from a countertop stereo. “I’ve got crumb cake,” she says over her shoulder.
    “No thanks. Just coffee.”
    “Are you feeling better today?”
    “Yeah, I’m okay.” He takes in the details of the kitchen. It all fits perfectly with the sounds he listened to outside its door. Vases of sea glass and heather, white shuttered windows, a lazy ceiling fan. “My brother and I had signed on to do the renovations here.”
    “You’re kidding,” Maris says, turning to him with the coffee pot in one hand, a mug with a seashell design in the other.
    He notices the architectural details in the kitchen windows and exposed beams. “But we got in the accident before I even drew up the plans.”
    She fills the mug and sets it in front of him.
    “Naturally they used someone else,” he says. “I haven’t been in here since.”
    Maris sits across from him and sips her coffee.
    “He’s kind of why I’m here now, Maris. Neil is. And last night and everything that happened on the boardwalk. It was crazy, and I want to talk to you about it.”
    “You don’t have to explain.”
    “No, I do.” Madison settles on the tile floor beside him and he takes a long swallow of coffee, thinking how to begin. “It’s been good seeing everyone this summer.”
    Maris reaches over the breakfast bar and clasps his hand. “It has, and we’re all friends. We understand, Jason.”
    He pulls his hand back and stands, ready to thank her for that, for letting him off the hook so easily. He can quickly finish his coffee and be on his way. But when he sees the coffee pot and the dishes in the sink and her digital sketch tablet with a recent design on the