Wellesley
Eva paused, her hand on the doorknob. She didn't have to go in; no one had seen her yet. It would be nothing to drop her keys back into her bag, go back down the stairs, and walk the four blocks to the dinner she had declined an invitation to. The dinner Dylan had asked her to. Dylan. His image filled her mind, the soft blond hair he never combed, the green eyes that always brightened just for her, the mouth—Stop it. She shook her head, banishing all thoughts of him. She couldn't go, not unless she wanted a repeat of what had happened the last time she accepted a dinner invitation from him. With a sigh, she pushed the door open and went inside.
The apartment was quiet, the front room dark. She checked her watch. It was only six PM, but the darkness could only mean her mother was in bed. The sound of glass clinking in the distance signaled her father's location. Quietly, she hurried across the apartment—not that there was much to hurry across, as it was only four rooms—clutching her books to her chest, Dylan's latest drawing tucked safely inside a copy of Mrs. Dalloway. She had just reached her door when her father's voice broke the silence.
"Eva."
She stopped, one foot still in the air. "Yes?" she asked, turning around slowly.
Cal stood in the doorway that led to the kitchen, one hand in his pocket, a glass of amber liquid and ice in the other. His dark eyes were clear. It was either his first drink or he had eaten something for lunch. His clothes were rumpled, as though he had slept in them, and he probably had. Once, he had abhorred the very idea of an afternoon nap. Now, that seemed to be one of his chief occupations. His hair was swept back, held down by a palm full of pomade. It shone in the dim light from the kitchen, more jet black onyx than hair. As a child, Eva had often spent hours in front of the mirror, trying desperately to transform her unruly tresses into the same slick onyx as her father's.
"Have you eaten?" he asked. She shook her head. "Well, I made something if you would care to join me." His mouth turned up just slightly at the corners. The smile was as awkward as the silence that was sure to fill the air between them until she escaped to her room—to her sewing, her books, to run her fingertips over Dylan's drawing and fall asleep with it beneath her hand.
*****
"How was the party?"
Dylan flicked the ash from the end of his cigarette before answering. "Dull. I couldn't remember why I was there after ten minutes."
Eva rolled her eyes. "Sure it was," she said, taking a sip of her coffee.
"How can you drink it like that?" he asked, eyeing the steam that rose from her mug.
"This is the only way I can drink it," she said.
"Doesn't it hurt your throat?"
She sighed happily. "That's what I like—the burn. It doesn't hurt—not like you think. It feels nice…warm." She smiled sheepishly. "Like getting a hug."
Dylan returned the smile. "I could just hug you. Save you the quarter."
Eva arched an eyebrow. "I think your other girlfriends would have a problem with that."
"What other girlfriends?"
Pink dimes spread across her cheeks. She knew she was the only one, had known for months, but he had never said it before. Do it. Do it now or you won't. She sucked in her breath. Her hands were cold despite the steaming mug between them. "Dylan, would you…would you like to meet my family?" She studied the ceiling's reflection in her coffee and counted the seconds that passed. A minute went by. Two. He isn't saying anything. Why isn't he saying anything? Hesitantly, she raised her head. He was staring at her with an unreadable expression. "If you don't want—"
"I'd love to."
"You would?" Relief thickened her voice. "I have to warn you. They're nothing like yours. I don't think my parents have talked to each other as much in ten years as yours do in ten minutes."
Dylan chuckled. "Comparing them to my parents is a bit unfair. They aren't like anyone else I've met so far."
"I've never met anyone like them, either. They were like something out of a fairytale." Dylan laughed. "I'm serious!" Eva said.
"I know you are," he said. "It's just that when we were kids, Lily and me, our dad used to tell us about how he met our mom as though it had been a fairytale." A faraway look came into Dylan's eyes. "He was the artist who saved the princess from the prince."
"I thought a prince was supposed to save the princess?"
"Not in this story. She wasn't a regular princess, he always said. She was a gypsy princess who had gotten mailed to the wrong address."
"How did they really meet?"
Dylan hesitated. Should he tell her? There was a chance she already knew. But what if she didn't know? I'll tell her. Just not now. "They met on a ship."
*****
Lily crossed her arms over her chest. "Are you serious?"
Dylan ignored her. He shifted a stack of books from one side of her desk to another. "Don't you have any more cigarettes?"
"In the drawer. What the hell are you doing?"
He turned around, a lit cigarette between his lips. "Smoking."
She exhaled loudly. "I can see that. And you know that's not what I meant. What are you doing having dinner with Eva's family?"
"She had dinner with ours."
"Ours have never tried to kill anyone."
"That was twenty years ago. And besides, he married someone else. I hardly think the man's still harboring a burning desire for revenge."
"Even if he isn't, I'm sure he won't want you marrying his daughter."
"So, you won't come with me?"
"Give me one of those." She snatched a cigarette from the pack in his hand. "Why do you need me?" she asked, lighting it. "Most men don't take their sisters along when they're getting ready to ask a woman to marry them, you know."
"Most women don't drop out of college to be fulltime revolutionaries." Lily's eyes narrowed. "You haven't told them yet, have you?" he added. She studied her nails. "I didn't think so. You have to tell them. They'll figure it out eventually."
She didn't look up. "Yeah, I know. It's just…"
"What?"
"You didn't want to go, and I did. And now I've quit. I gave my scholarship money to someone else. How do you think they'll take that?"
"They've never told us what we had to do in life. You know that."
"Yeah, I know, but still…" She sighed. "I'll tell them about this when you tell them you're marrying Eva."
"I'm assuming that's a yes to coming with me next week."
Santa Monica
Rose stretched her arms above her head until the joints popped. Satisfied, she smiled and let her arms drop.
"It'll hurt later if you keep doing that," Jack said. His footfalls were soft on the thick rug. His feet were bare, she could tell. His feet were always bare when he worked. It was easier to wash paint off skin than shoes he said.
Rose turned toward the sound of his voice. "You always say that."
"And you keep doing it anyway." A smile lurked at the edge of his words.
She heard it and her smile widened. "Are you still working on that set piece?"
"Just finished it."
"How did it turn out?"
He shrugged. "It's all right, I guess."
"You would say that about the Mona Lisa if you had been Da Vinci."
"He probably did say that a few times. What were you doing?"
Rose held out her hand. "Come here." His fingers curled around hers. "All right," she said. "Stand in front of me." He hesitated. "Go on," she said. She wrapped her arms around his middle. She pressed her face into his back. The thin cotton was soft against her skin; beneath it she could feel his muscles moving as he breathed. He was so warm, so solid. "Do you see it?" she asked, lifting her head just enough to keep her voice from being muffled.
"I see it." There was a trace of awe in Jack's voice. Through the doors that led from their bedroom, he saw the ocean. It shimmered in the afternoon sun. "It's like someone dropped a bag of sapphires," he said.
"That's what I thought it would look like," she said softly, "from the way the sun felt."
He reached behind his back and pulled her around. "Let's go see it up close."