Twillyweed by Mary Anne Kelly

lucky.
    â€œReally?” was all I could think to say. I watched his profile. It was a fine, manly nose he had. But despite my scrutiny, he gave nothing away but the facts, ma’am, no sign of emotion; still, I sensed a cool retreat. I said, “Look, if it makes a difference that I have children just tell me now because I can go back to Que—”
    But he interrupted me. “You don’t have to apologize for being a woman. Some people have no idea what that takes. Some people think in order to be a lady one has to give up being a woman.” He shot me a reluctant look. “And in the end it does nobody any good.”
    At the time I thought he was talking about his mother. Only later would I find out what he meant. And my thoughts had turned to coffee. I checked my watch. “Look, I’m free until eleven.”
    â€œAnyone else you want to call?” he asked. “Your ex-husband? Your gay fiancé?”
    I gaped at him. What did he think, it was a joke? My life was a joke?
    â€œWhy don’t we go see it, see how you feel about it,” he suggested. “Figure out if it suits us both.” He gave me the once-over.
    I must have blushed. I knew what I must look like. My two black eyes. No doubt by now I smelled of perspiration. I moved a little farther away from him. He was probably thinking I would go very well indeed with that dilapidated cottage.
    We drove up and down the unfamiliar hills, then approached the cottage from the roadside, which was an experience in itself. It went almost straight up. The steep lane had my stomach in a knot as we reached the top. I held on to the door and was prepared to jump out when the car slipped backward, which I felt sure it would. He glanced at my hand on the door and laughed. And then we were there. We pulled the car onto the drive and came to a halt. He literally jumped over the door like someone in a movie. The cottage could hardly be seen from the road, barricaded by low-hanging branches dripping with white petals. The path was strewn and covered with things grown wild. Braided wisteria husks the size of saplings lounged across the roof. Thinking to show off my house-hunter savvy, I suggested, “If you’re thinking of selling, you might want to clear the front. That way, people can see the cottage.”
    He searched his pockets for the key. “Some people treasure privacy,” he said in a cold tone.
    I shut up and followed his broad back down the overgrown path. What had once been a garden in rows had fallen to plunder. A verdigris sundial sat prettily on a pedestal and I trailed my fingers across its cruddy surface.
    â€œSundials have been telling time for three thousand years,” he remarked. “She’s missing her gnomon, that one,” he muttered. Then, “Never got around to repairing it.”
    â€œGnomon?” I tasted the word. “The name of your boat, right?”
    â€œThat’s right. Shows the direction.”
    There was a ruckus of birdsong. It stopped suddenly when we came to the door. “Damn key,” he muttered and then dropped it. He winced and grabbed hold of his wrist. I saw that he was wounded somehow, so I knelt and retrieved the key from a drowsy of chamomile between the slates. The birds went back to singing. He swatted his arms. “Cold enough,” he grumbled, embarrassed by his clumsiness.
    â€œWhen I hear the birds singing, I don’t mind the cold.” I slipped the key in. “I always figure if they can take it, so can I.”
    â€œThey’re cold-blooded,” he said wryly.
    â€œOh, so am I,” I assured him, acting big.
    The door hesitated then swung open easily. It was dark inside, but a huge window across the cottage was filled with the lit-up sea. I’d never seen anything like it. It was utterly magical.
    â€œHang on,” he said as he reached for the light switch.
    The house tipped to one side, into the direction of the sea.