down at the popover. I thought about that day in this restaurant six years ago, the way Natalie tore off small pieces of her popover, the look of concentration as she buttered it, the way she simply enjoyed everything. When we were together, even the smallest thing took on significance. Every touch brought pleasure.
You made a promise.
Even now, even after all that had happened, I couldn’t betray her. Stupid? Yep. Naive? Oh, several steps south of that. But I couldn’t do it.
“Talk to me, Jake.”
I shook my head. “No.”
“Why the hell not?”
“Who ordered turkey BLT?”
It was another waitress, this one less perky and more harried. I raised my hand.
“And the grilled portobello sandwich?”
“Wrap it for me,” Shanta said, rising. “I lost my appetite.”
Chapter 13
T he first time I met Natalie she was wearing sunglasses indoors. To make matters worse, it was nighttime.
I rolled my eyes, thinking it was for effect. I figured that she fancied herself an Artiste with a capital
A
. We were attending a mixer of sorts, the art colony and the writers’ retreat, sharing one another’s work. This was my first time attending, but I soon learned that it was a weekly gathering. The art was displayed in the back of Darly Wanatick’s barn. Chairs were set up for the readings.
The woman in the sunglasses—I hadn’t met her yet—sat in the last row, her arms crossed. A bearded man with dark curly hair sat next to her. I wondered whether they were together. Remember the blowhard named Lars who was writing poetry from the perspective of Hitler’s dog? He began to read. He read for a long time. I began to fidget. The woman in the sunglasses remained still.
When I could listen no longer, rude or not, I wandered toward the back of the barn and started to check out the various art on display. Most of it, well, I will be kind. I didn’t “get it.” There was an installation piece called
Breakfast in America
that featured spilled boxes of cold cereal on a kitchen table. That was it. There were boxes of Cap’n Crunch, Cap’n Crunch with Peanut Butter (one person actually muttered, “Notice there is no Cap’n Crunch with Crunch Berries—why?—what is the artist saying?”), Lucky Charms, Cocoa Puffs, Sugar Smacks, even my old favorite, Quisp. I looked at the spilled cereal coating the table. It did not speak to me, though my stomach grumbled a little.
When one person asked, “What do you think?” I was tempted to say that it needed a little milk.
As I kept walking, only one artist’s work gave me real pause. I stopped at a painting of a small cottage on top of a hill. There was a soft morning glow hitting the side—the pinkness that comes with the first light of day. I couldn’t tell you why but it choked me up. Maybe it was the dark windows, as though the cottage had once been warm but it was abandoned now. I don’t know. But I stood in front of the painting and felt lost and moved. I stepped slowly from one painting to the next. They all delivered a blow of some kind. Some made me melancholy. Some made me nostalgic, whimsical, passionate. None left me indifferent.
I will spare you the “big reveal” that the paintings were done by Natalie.
A woman was smiling at my reaction. “Do you like them?”
“Very much,” I said. “Are you the artist?”
“Heavens no. I run the bakery and coffee shop in town.” She offered me her hand. “They call me Cookie.”
I shook it. “Wait. Cookie runs a bakery?”
“Yeah, I know. Too precious, right?”
“Maybe a tad.”
“The artist is Natalie Avery. She’s right over there.”
Cookie pointed to the woman with the sunglasses.
“Oh,” I said.
“Oh what?”
With the sunglasses-indoors look, I had her pegged as the creator of
Breakfast in America
. Lars had just finished his reading. The crowd gave him a small golf-clap, but Lars, sporting an ascot, bowed as though it were a thunderous standing ovation.
Everyone quickly rose except for
You made a promise.
Even now, even after all that had happened, I couldn’t betray her. Stupid? Yep. Naive? Oh, several steps south of that. But I couldn’t do it.
“Talk to me, Jake.”
I shook my head. “No.”
“Why the hell not?”
“Who ordered turkey BLT?”
It was another waitress, this one less perky and more harried. I raised my hand.
“And the grilled portobello sandwich?”
“Wrap it for me,” Shanta said, rising. “I lost my appetite.”
Chapter 13
T he first time I met Natalie she was wearing sunglasses indoors. To make matters worse, it was nighttime.
I rolled my eyes, thinking it was for effect. I figured that she fancied herself an Artiste with a capital
A
. We were attending a mixer of sorts, the art colony and the writers’ retreat, sharing one another’s work. This was my first time attending, but I soon learned that it was a weekly gathering. The art was displayed in the back of Darly Wanatick’s barn. Chairs were set up for the readings.
The woman in the sunglasses—I hadn’t met her yet—sat in the last row, her arms crossed. A bearded man with dark curly hair sat next to her. I wondered whether they were together. Remember the blowhard named Lars who was writing poetry from the perspective of Hitler’s dog? He began to read. He read for a long time. I began to fidget. The woman in the sunglasses remained still.
When I could listen no longer, rude or not, I wandered toward the back of the barn and started to check out the various art on display. Most of it, well, I will be kind. I didn’t “get it.” There was an installation piece called
Breakfast in America
that featured spilled boxes of cold cereal on a kitchen table. That was it. There were boxes of Cap’n Crunch, Cap’n Crunch with Peanut Butter (one person actually muttered, “Notice there is no Cap’n Crunch with Crunch Berries—why?—what is the artist saying?”), Lucky Charms, Cocoa Puffs, Sugar Smacks, even my old favorite, Quisp. I looked at the spilled cereal coating the table. It did not speak to me, though my stomach grumbled a little.
When one person asked, “What do you think?” I was tempted to say that it needed a little milk.
As I kept walking, only one artist’s work gave me real pause. I stopped at a painting of a small cottage on top of a hill. There was a soft morning glow hitting the side—the pinkness that comes with the first light of day. I couldn’t tell you why but it choked me up. Maybe it was the dark windows, as though the cottage had once been warm but it was abandoned now. I don’t know. But I stood in front of the painting and felt lost and moved. I stepped slowly from one painting to the next. They all delivered a blow of some kind. Some made me melancholy. Some made me nostalgic, whimsical, passionate. None left me indifferent.
I will spare you the “big reveal” that the paintings were done by Natalie.
A woman was smiling at my reaction. “Do you like them?”
“Very much,” I said. “Are you the artist?”
“Heavens no. I run the bakery and coffee shop in town.” She offered me her hand. “They call me Cookie.”
I shook it. “Wait. Cookie runs a bakery?”
“Yeah, I know. Too precious, right?”
“Maybe a tad.”
“The artist is Natalie Avery. She’s right over there.”
Cookie pointed to the woman with the sunglasses.
“Oh,” I said.
“Oh what?”
With the sunglasses-indoors look, I had her pegged as the creator of
Breakfast in America
. Lars had just finished his reading. The crowd gave him a small golf-clap, but Lars, sporting an ascot, bowed as though it were a thunderous standing ovation.
Everyone quickly rose except for
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