Two from the Heart(13)

I took a deep breath. “Actually,” I said, “I think you should probably just go ahead and kiss me.”





Chapter 14


KAREN PLACED a mug of coffee in front of me and then sat down across the breakfast table. “Tell me everything,” she demanded.

My cheeks grew warm at the memory. (How a person could get to age thirty-six without ever kissing a handsome utter stranger was another mystery, especially considering how fun it had been.) “His name is Rob… and we made out a little,” I said.

“A little?” Karen asked.

I smiled. Rob and I had gone out to a dark, private corner of the patio, but he hadn’t kissed me right away. Instead he’d taken my hand in his and held it, warm and gentle. I traced the calluses on his fingertips from his guitar, and it was almost like I could still hear the melody of their last song. And then I’d blurted, “You know I’m never going to be here again,” and he’d smiled this almost bashful smile and said, “Never say—”

But before he could say never, I’d stood on my tiptoes and kissed him, a long, deep kiss that sent electric tingles to every single nerve ending in my body. It was the first of several.

“All right, Karen, we made out kind of a lot,” I admitted.

“I knew it!” Karen crowed. “I’m so proud of you.”

I faked a bow. “Just doing my duty, ma’am. Anytime you need someone to kiss a handsome musician, I’m your gal.”

Karen sighed and rested a hand on her still-flat stomach. “I guess I’ll have to start living la vida loca vicariously through you now.”

“I hope you enjoy long hours in the car,” I said.

“Did you get his number?”

“No, silly, because I’m leaving, remember?”

She laughed. “You could’ve called him, said ‘thanks for the memories.’”

I shook my head. “That’s not loca, that’s polite.” Then out of the corner of my eye, I saw Sophie tiptoeing over in a pair of pink flannel pj’s. “Well, look who’s up!”

“I made you something,” she said shyly, holding out a wrinkled piece of paper.

I squinted at the multicolored lines and squiggles. “I love it—that’s an absolutely amazing cat,” I said.

“It’s actually a guinea pig,” she said.

“That’s what I meant! Did I say cat? Obviously it’s a guinea pig.” I held it to my chest. “Thank you so much. I have something for you, too.” And I pinched off one of the little plantlets that sprouted from Spidey’s leaves and placed it in Sophie’s tiny palm. “If you put this in potting soil and keep it watered, you’ll have your own spider plant.”

Her eyes widened. “Does it grow spiders?”

“No, just nice, variegated leaves,” I assured her. “Green, with white stripes.”

“I want to plant it right now,” she said to her mother.

I drained the last of my coffee and stood. “I’ll let you two do that. I have to get on the road. I’m going to visit my mom’s best friend, near Kansas City.”

Karen shot me a look. “That doesn’t sound very loca, either,” she said.

I hugged her and resisted the urge to touch her belly. “I’ll see what I can do.”

“Don’t let another six years go by, okay?” she said.

“I won’t,” I promised. “I’m coming back to meet those—” I stopped and mouthed the word babies.

“Good. And you ought to make one of your own one of these days, you know,” Karen said. She always was bossy like that.

“Maybe,” I said, though it seemed just as likely that I’d make a spaceship and fly to the rings of Saturn. “Who knows. But I’m going to make a book first.” I held up my camera and snapped her picture. “And you’re going to be in it.”





Chapter 15


I HADN’T seen Pauline, my mom’s best friend, for almost two decades. But she sent cards every Christmas, which was how I knew that she’d been diagnosed with breast cancer—just like my mom.

They’d had the same disease, and it had even been caught at the same stage. But only Pauline’s story had a happy ending: She’d been cancer-free for five years now.

My mom, on the other hand, had been dead for nearly twenty.

But I didn’t want to think dark thoughts on this late-August afternoon, with the sun shining bright and golden over the small town of Bonner Springs, Missouri. So I decided to park on the main drag, buy myself an iced mocha, and walk the quiet streets to Pauline’s house while pondering happier subjects.

I passed modest but immaculate houses, roses spilling over white fences, joggers and dog walkers, and even a stand of kids selling lemonade. It was like strolling along through a Norman Rockwell painting—which was charming, but also so perfect it was weird.

If I lived in a quaint Midwestern town like this, a palm tree wouldn’t fall on my darkroom—but otherwise, would my life be so very different? As my dad used to say, Wherever you go, there you are.

But maybe he just used that as an excuse not to go to new places or, toward the end of his life, to move much beyond his favorite easy chair. He’d been in a lot of pain by then—he’d broken a hip, and it hadn’t healed right—so it must have been better to stay still. To wait for death to find him in the living room.