Seeking Sara Summers by Susan Gabriel Page B

beauty of everything around her, including Julia, expanded Sara’s chest and threatened to burst open the scar. Italy was bringing Sara back to life. But maybe that wasn’t such a good thing.
    Sara suddenly felt confused. Mixed with the confusion were feelings she had never experienced before, except with Grady after they had first been married. It was as if all the lines she had drawn until now were blurring. Was she falling for Julia?
    Sara turned toward the path, wanting to run away. She wanted to be home. Home with Grady; Luke, the dog; her uninspired students; and everything predictable and familiar. Things were too foreign here, including the new emotions waking up in her.
    “Is something wrong?” Julia asked.
    “I’m ready to go back,” Sara said. She hated how cowardly she felt.
    “What is it?” Julia asked.
    “Nothing,” Sara said. She wasn’t about to admit to Julia something she couldn’t even admit to herself.
    They returned to the house through another field of sunflowers surrounded by a patch of gnarled olive trees. A painter’s paradise, Sara decided. Actually, anyone’s paradise.  For the rest of the walk she kept her eyes focused on the path in front of her, fielding the thoughts and feelings she couldn’t put words to yet. Julia, who seemed to know instinctively that Sara needed space, didn’t speak on their return. When they entered the courtyard through the gate, Sara averted her eyes from the woman in stone, imagining she could read her mind, as well as her heart.
    “There they are,” Melanie said when they entered the kitchen. “We’d almost given up on you.”
    “We took a walk,” Julia said. “Up to the summit.”
    “How lovely,” Melanie said.
    A large earthenware bowl of pasta sat next to a mixed green salad on a large antique wooden table in the dining room. Bread and wine balanced out the feast. For the first time Sara noticed the ice pick that stood erect in the center of the table next to a vase full of flowers. It appeared to have a permanent mooring there, next to an assortment of signatures carved into the wood.
    “Former owners of the table and their family members,” Max said, answering Sara’s unasked question. “We’ve continued the tradition. All our family and friends sign it. Before you leave, I hope you’ll do us the honor.” 
    Somehow leaving her mark on an old table in Italy touched her deeply. Tears threatened to wash over every name, the flow as unending as the fountain outside. Sara took a sip of water to prevent the outpour. One of the newest carvings was Julia’s. Sara instantly wanted to add her name next to Julia’s and encircle it with a primitive heart: S.S. + J.D. She shook the thought away.
    Sara offered a sentence or two through the rest of the meal but didn’t feel like talking. After all those years of holding herself together she was finally losing it. Exhilaration and terror mingled with the bread and wine. The ground was dissolving underneath her. She was between worlds. Instead of a near-death experience, she was having a near-life one. At that moment death seemed easier. Life was too messy and unpredictable.
    Sara faked a headache and returned to the safety of her room. The door locked, she curled up on the bed, gripping her knees, wanting to cut off the oxygen to the emotion. You’re losing it, the critical voice in her head reminded her.
    Shut up! Sara thought, and for once the voice seemed to listen.
    Pull yourself together, she coached herself. A week from now you’ll be home. Back to normal life. For now, just go with it.
    Sara breathed deeply, taking her own advice. After a few minutes she got up in search of something normal to do. Post cards, she thought. She had bought dozens of postcards and not sent a single one. She sat at the small antique desk next to the window to write, hoping this ordinary, mundane action would center her in her ordinary, mundane life.
    The late afternoon sun peaked through the lace curtains