Chapter 14 #2
“From the time I was a tiny girl. I was obsessed with illustrations in children’s books.
The colors and compositions. How they elevated the story.
I started drawing and painting a little when I could get my hands on paints.
Then, in high school, our art teacher somehow got a potter’s wheel and kiln donated.
She asked if I wanted to try after school.
First time was a disaster, of course, but I was hooked.
There was something so right about the way the clay responded to my touch.
I got into art school and chose pottery as my major.
After school, I lucked into a job at the gallery here in town.
The owner mentored me, and, when he decided to retire, I bought him out.
We’d bought a small house in town, and then Annie was born.
After I met Lila, we started teaming up.
She sent me her wealthy clients. I sent her mine.
Which worked out well for both of us. But during all this, Jon was getting worse.
After he died, I couldn’t stay in that house.
Lila found the cottage first and insisted I go see it with her.
It was exactly what I wanted, even though it needed a ton of work.
Lila helped me make it habitable. And I spent hours and hours in the garden, trying to make something beautiful.
Saved me after Jon died. There are droplets of grief in every bit of that soil. In every seed and bloom.”
“You made something beautiful out of your grief,” Dorian said. “But I’m sorry you had to go through that.”
His kindness brought tears to my eyes. Before I could overthink it, I cupped his cheek and kissed him. “Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For listening. I haven’t talked that much in a long time,” I said.
“I could listen to you talk all night long and not even realize time had passed.”
“Tell me about Nate,” I said. “I’ve told you a lot about Jon and realize I haven’t asked you many questions. I’m sorry about that.”
“Don’t be. It’s not easy to bring up.” He was quiet for a moment.
“We came out of the Navy the same month. Same paperwork, same handshake, out the same door. My mother was sick and needed me. I had something to focus on. And there was the store. I had to step up and keep it running. And the community was good to me. Mom was so loved, and they just seemed to transfer that love to me. Nate used to tease me about the bookstore. Said it would make me soft and doughy standing around all day.” A breath of a laugh came and went almost before it arrived.
“I figured Nate had the same support. He went home to a wife and two kids and a house with a yard. He was needed, like me. I guess I assumed that would give him enough purpose that he’d be fine.
But that’s not what happened. He was detached.
Vacant. A ghost in his own living room. His wife called me a few times, saying he didn’t seem right, describing how he’d just sit in his chair watching sports, drinking lite beer.
But when I was with him, he seemed fine.
I saw him maybe once a month, and, every time, he told me he was good.
‘I’m good, brother. Don’t worry so much.
’ He really put on a show for me. I was the one person who should have seen through him, but he worked hard to make sure I didn’t.
” He turned the wine glass slowly in his fingers, not drinking from it.
“You'd think the people closest would catch it.
But that's who they hide it from hardest—the ones who'd know.”
“I never thought about it that way,” I said.
“And then, he got better.”
“Better.”
“That’s how it looked. After the worst of it—the bad winter, the calls from his wife that scared me—he went calm.
Lighter. Like a weight had come off him.
I remember feeling so relieved, I eased up.
Stopped checking in so much. Figured he’d turned the corner.
” He set the glass down in the cup holder, carefully, like it might break.
“He hadn’t turned a corner. He’d decided.
That calm I was so glad to see—that was him saying goodbye, and I read it as good news. ”
I placed a hand on his arm and let him keep talking.
“In the service you don’t leave anyone behind. That’s not a slogan. It’s the one rule under all the others. You bring your people home.” He looked at me, and there was no wit left anywhere in him, just a vulnerable sincerity. “I left him out there to die alone.”
I thought of Jon. Of those last weeks, how he’d gone quiet and almost peaceful. I’d told myself the new medication was working. I’d let myself believe it.
“It was the same with Jon,” I said. “I thought the new medicine was making him better.”
“I’ve learned it’s very common,” Dorian said.
“Doesn’t help at all, though, right?”
“Not a bit.”
“I want to move forward so badly,” I said. “Everyone keeps telling me that’s what I should do, but they don’t understand what it’s like—the guilt and regrets. Mixed in with all this love too. And missing him.”
“I know. I understand what it’s like.” Dorian wrapped his arm around my shoulders and pulled me into a hug.
For a second, I resisted, but then let myself relax against him, to take comfort in the feel of his strength and warmth.
“It’s nice to talk to someone who understands,” Dorian said. “However, if I were the date police, I’d put us both in jail for being way too heavy for a second date. Especially at the drive-in.”
I nodded against his chest, and he let me go.
“You’re right, this is supposed to be a fun night. It’s almost time for the movie to start. Should we get popcorn first? The concession stand’s open. I could use the restroom too.”
“Let’s do it,” Dorian said, packing up the remnants of our dinner. “All joking aside, it feels good to talk about Nate with you. Thank you for that.”
I kissed his cheek. “I like that you’re real with me. It allows me to be that way with you.”
“All right, then, let’s get that popcorn.”
We climbed out of the car. Dorian took my hand as we walked toward the concession stand.
“We can’t share popcorn, right?” I asked him, referring to his dating profile.
“I did say separate bowls, but I wouldn’t mind sharing with you.”
“You’re a liar.”
He laughed. “No, I’m not. Which is weird. But I stand by the no talking during the movie rule.”
“Right? We’re not barbarians.”
We’d reached the concession stand by then. The same kid who let us in was now working behind the counter, stocking candy and other snacks for the big opening tomorrow.
“Hi, Mrs. Delacroix. You want some popcorn. I just made some.”
“Two bags,” I said, glancing up at Dorian. “Please.”
He served us up, and I left Dorian there and went to use the ladies’ room. By the time we returned to the car, the movie was about to start.
“I forgot to ask you what we’re watching,” Dorian said, adjusting the pillows so we could recline.
“Notting Hill.”
“No way. I love that movie,” Dorian said.
“When I heard what they were playing first, I took it as a sign. As you know, the hero’s a bookstore owner.”
“Gorgeous brunette as the heroine. Like you.”
“I’m no Julia Roberts.”
“No, you’re Delphine Delacroix. Which is even better.”
“Than Julia? I’m not sure about that.”
“I am.” He reached into his bag and pulled out a piece of popcorn, then fed it to me. I might as well have just hung it all up right then. The gesture was so romantic, so intimate, and, instead of it scaring me, I felt safe and cherished. Dorian Flynn was wearing me down, and I didn’t even care.
We watched the opening—the familiar streets of London moving across the screen. Then, Anna Scott stepped into William Thacker’s bookshop for the first time.
And we were lost in the story, watching without commentary, as promised. However, we held hands like teenagers, my leg pressed against his as we ate our popcorn.