Sweet Water(14)

I spent last summer helping the contractor upgrade the kitchen into a sleek masterpiece, lime-green subway tile, white-washed cabinets, a far cry from the Gothic revival look I had going on in the great room. But none of my offerings seems to appease Yazmin, an immobile chess piece frozen in place.

“Jell-O?” She looks like she might laugh but bites her lip instead. “No thank you.”

“There’re lemon bars too,” I try. “We also have a large outdoor area where you might be more comfortable.” This place is magic, and I won’t let her ruin it.

“No thank you.” Yazmin turns and cuts me open with her deep, dark eyes, shaking her head, and I wonder if I’ve now offended her somehow. Most of all, I worry she’ll shred my son with those eyes. He isn’t equipped to handle them.

“The candle smell is bothering Yazmin, Mom,” Finn defends his girlfriend.

“What about outside, though?” I ask. He has to know this is killing me, and even though I want to protest, I’m not about to get into a fight over it, with a teenager, no less.

Yazmin whispers in Finn’s ear, and I look at him to register his reaction, but he’s staring at his feet, his uncomfortable stance ever since he was a little kid. Spencer would charge upstairs and slam doors, but Finn was much less demonstrative.

The years wind back in that moment.

I can see Finn in his bare baby feet, just learning to pad around the house, and then in his extra-wide baby sneakers. Because his feet were so fat, we had to buy him special shoes. And then in his yellow rain boots, squishing worms in between the flagstones on the front walk. He shot up and thinned out like Martin and had eventually advanced to his first pair of hiking boots.

All in a minute.

I can see it happening. A time-lapse video.

And the only thing I can think is that this girl with the killer eyes shouldn’t be the one standing beside him. A ray of sunshine pierces the room, and Yazmin’s eyes gravitate to the windows, so lovely when the sun hits them just right.

But Yazmin stares straight at one of the stained-glass windows as if it’s a pentagram painted in blood. Her olive skin fades to gray, and she looks as if she’s going to be sick. “I didn’t expect this. Those windows are . . . too much.”

She looks away, blinking back tears.

“I’m sorry?” I ask. And I’m sure by the way she pronounces “too much” she doesn’t mean extraordinary. There isn’t a single person who has walked through these doors who hasn’t immediately fallen in love with my windows, but she looks as though she’s just seen a ghost. “What do you mean?”

“They’re . . .” Yazmin looks at Finn to rescue her.

“Very unique to the house,” Finn answers.

“Even those?” she asks, pointing to the side windows, the newer ones featuring an English coat of arms with curly banners draped around the letter E.

“Martin added those. Family crest.” I try not to sound like a braggart, but the surprise Martin gave me for our one-year anniversary still holds up. He knew how much I loved the other stained-glass windows in the house, so he added two more with the crest to make Stonehenge our own. Variations of the crest made it onto a lot of things the Ellsworths owned, and no one else pointed out that the newer windows didn’t complement the biblical ones, but I think Yazmin just did, and it bothers me.

I take another look at them, upset that she’s making me second-guess something I’ve always loved.

“Right.” Yazmin rocks on her heels and then makes a waving gesture with her hands. “I think I need to leave.” She coughs and grabs her throat.

Finn moves to her side, placing a hand on her back. “Are you all right?” he asks.

I walk up beside them.

Finn nudges her shoulder toward the door. “We can just go to the French Café,” he suggests, talking about the local diner.

“Okay,” Yazmin says, relieved.

This is ridiculous. Finn loves strawberry-pretzel salad; that’s why I made it.

I clench my dish towel. “Please stay. I have all kinds of food here. Why don’t you see if you like it better outside, on the patio? Maybe you won’t feel so closed in. Fresh air,” I say.

Finn is leading Yazmin to the door, and neither one of them turns back in my direction to acknowledge me. If she apologized first, it would’ve gone a long way. “I’m sorry, but the smell in your home is bothering me.”

But she doesn’t. So I’m left disliking her despite the fact that she’s distressed in my home and possibly ill.

Finn makes contact with Yazmin’s hand, grabbing it.

She whispers something in his ear again, and I don’t have to hear it to know she’s telling him what to do. I find their interaction oddly forced, and nothing about their courtship reminds me of when Spencer dated his first real girlfriend, Allegra, a bashful girl with a tinkling laugh. Away at college now, premed, Spencer can’t be bothered with a girlfriend, but this young lady seems to really have her hooks in Finn.

“Bye, Mom,” Finn says.

She says nothing.

Do not order my son around. And do not disrespect me in my home.

I want to protest, but they’re already gone, door slammed, the hammering echo of a boy lost to the wrong girl beating off the rafters.



My heart jumps around in my chest after they’re gone, a feeling I haven’t experienced since Martin told me his company might be opening an office in London. My panic came from fear of leaving my father and the careful group of neighborhood friends I’ve built here over the years. I tentatively chose my connections, because I wasn’t very good at making them, a problem that most likely stemmed from my mother’s death when I was in grade school.