The Wedding Shawl by Sally Goldenbaum

Harry’s hoagie. It wasn’t really a late-afternoon snack—it was a feast.
    The crisp, homemade bun was so stuffed, she wondered how anyone could get a mouth around it. Layers of provolone, roasted peppers, purple eggplant, sweet gherkins, thinly sliced tomato, and sautéed onion were piled high and topped with Harry’s thick pink sauce, which dribbled down the sides. Nell caught it with her fingertip and licked it clean. She cut the sandwich into small wedges.
    Ben’s gesture was sweet, especially since he was right. She’d become immersed in getting things done and had only snacked lightly. She walked over to the sink and stood there for a minute, absently washing her hands, her eyes scanning the yard.
    Her favorite view. The yard painted in a dozen shades of green, the sea just barely visible though the tops of leafy trees, the sun casting long shadows across the yard as it made its way down the western horizon.
    She had loved this yard from the first time Ben brought her to his family’s vacation home. It was filled with memories—noisy picnics in the back with his brothers and various girlfriends, volleyball games. Clambakes and lazy afternoons in the rope hammock. Madeline and Jim Endicott made everyone feel at home at 22 Sandswept Lane, and Nell felt a certain pride in knowing she and Ben had carried on his parents’ legacy.
    Today the lawn looked especially welcoming. Was the grass greener since Claire came into its life? The flowers brighter? A movement out of the corner of her eye shifted her attention to the guesthouse, nearly hidden behind a thick row of rugosa roses. Claire was walking around the side of the cottage. She picked up a hose coiled near the corner of the house, turned on the faucet knob, and began spraying the roses.
    Nell had almost forgotten that Claire had moved into the guesthouse. Ben had been more hospitable than she. Before leaving that morning, he’d gone down with the newspaper and a cup of coffee, which Claire had gratefully accepted. She was still in a robe, Ben said, and looked like she’d just gotten up, so he left her alone to begin her day in peace and quiet.
    Nell watched for a minute, then, feeling like a voyeur, turned from the window. She found Claire fascinating. She was beautiful in a classic kind of way—long face and nose, high, round cheekbones. But her face held a kind of mystery, too, and had lines that Nell suspected had stories behind them. She often felt Claire’s reticence to talk about herself when they worked together in the garden, though she asked dozens of questions about the town, about Izzy’s wedding. It was like a dance. Some days Nell would feel she was on the cusp of getting to know what Claire was all about, and then there’d be graceful—but definite—steps back.
    She looked at the sandwich wedges on the counter. Then she impulsively slipped them onto a plate with some raw veggies, grabbed napkins and two bottles of water, and headed toward the back of the yard.
    Claire spun around at the sound of her footsteps. The hose flew up in the air, the arc of the water creating a rainbow in the sunshine.
    “Nell, I’m sorry. I didn’t hear you.”
    “You were deep in thought.”
    “Deep in watering, anyway.” Claire got the hose under control and continued her watering, moving from the roses to a border of hostas, then on to the thirsty hydrangea bushes. Water beaded up on the deep green leaves.
    “I don’t know if I’ve even thanked you, Nell,” Claire began, her eyes on the watering. “Your guesthouse is wonderful. I’m surprised you can pry people out of it once they spend one night in that magnificent bed—that and the sea air coming in the window. It’s quite amazing. It clears your head.”
    “It’s magic. The magic of the sea. And you’re welcome to stay as long as you like.” Nell put the plate down on a low wrought-iron table and motioned for Claire to join her. “Watering can wait, but this snack can’t. A taste of