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Emily was devastated when she received the call that Jonathan, the man she was going to marry in two weeks, had just been killed in a motorcycle accident. Holding the phone to her ear, she stood still, stunned, unable to speak or comprehend the words she heard. The call came from Jonathan’s mother, who had just been called by the police. “Oh no!” Emily gasped and clutched her hair. Sobs broke loose and tears rolled down her cheeks to her lips. “The police just called. It just happened. They said he was killed instantly.” “Oh my God, I can’t believe it.” Emily trembled. Her fingers gripped the phone. “Where is he?” “They took him to Memorial Hospital. They saw the tag that he’s an organ donor.” Emily remembered Jonathan signing up as a donor when he got his license and was not surprised when he mentioned it to her. It was just like him to want to donate his organs to someone who could use what he would no longer need. When she hung up, she collapsed on the kitchen chair, her body numb. Memories suddenly flashed through her mind, swirling like a kaleidoscope: how he looked into her eyes after taking her virginity, how they kissed when they took long walks late at night, how he looked in the apron when he cooked her delicious meals; his smile when he brought her flowers from his garden. She remembered his blue eyes when he spoke about his poetry and could see and feel his intensity while she watched him drawing in his sketchbook, or painting on his canvases or pieces of wood. She could see how tender he was, taking care of his mother after his father died of cancer when Jonathan was just sixteen. She remembered how he drove her to doctor’s appointments, took her shopping, made sure she took her medicine. He was the perfect son, the perfect lover, and Emily knew she was the luckiest girl alive to have a man like Jonathan love her and want to spend the rest of his life with her. And now he was suddenly gone. Dead. How could it be? Later, she found out from witnesses that a truck went through a stop sign and Jonathan crashed into its side and was thrown two hundred feet over the truck, landing on the sidewalk in front of Partridge's Drug Store, ironically where he had picked up his mother’s prescriptions the night before. Emily worked as a waitress at Pete’s Diner and was supposed to be at work in an hour. She knew she couldn’t face the familiar customers she served breakfast and lunch to every day. Emily took pride in her job as a waitress. She knew all of her customers’ names and what they wanted before they ordered. She had worked there since graduating from high school and now, at twenty two, she liked how much Pete valued and depended on her to make his customers happy. He had often told Emily that she was the one who made his diner successful. Even with the pain of realizing Jonathan had been killed, she worried about Pete and wondered what he would do if she didn’t come to work. But after she called and heard his shock, he told her not to worry, that he would call Janice, the waitress who came in to help with the busy lunch crowd. Emily was relieved and wanted to go over to Jonathan’s house to be with his mother, but she couldn’t budge from the kitchen table. The invitations to the wedding had been sent out over a month ago. Everyone knew that Jonathan and Emily were the perfect couple and the thought of their marriage delighted everyone in Tomkinsville, the small Pennsylvania town on the Susquehanna River, forty miles from Philadelphia. She knew what a shock it would be when people realized there would be no wedding. Not able to sit any longer, Emily walked around the house. She looked at the dark green couch where she and Jonathan made out, then glanced at the old fifteen inch television where they watched basketball games and movies, then she went into the dining room and touched the chair where he sat when he came there for dinner. She slowly climbed the stairs to her bedroom, looking at the unmade bed and at her jeans on the floor where she’d thrown them the night before when they made mad, passionate love. She remembered the sound of his motorcycle when he left at one a.m. to go home because he had to get up early for his first class at Montgomery County Community College. She remembered him telling her how much he loved the art history class he was taking, how he loved painting and was determined to be the best artist he could be. That was how he did everything, and it was one of the things she loved most about him--his passion. It showed in his energy, his determination, how much he loved life, how he loved riding his motorcycle--his pampered motorcycle. She loved sitting behind him as they drove though the countryside, inevitably ending up at their special spot to make love by Grover’s Pond. He’d take his Indian style blanket from the leather saddlebag and place it on the soft grass. She loved his kissing and the thrilling ways he made her scream his name and want to give herself completely to him. She thought about how magical he was, how open and yet, mysterious. She knew it would take a lifetime of discovery to know the depth of his spirit. Emily cringed when she saw her wedding dress hanging on her closet door, then looked at the picture on her bureau of the two of them after the prom. She saw how stiff he looked in the tuxedo, but when she saw his smile, that radiant smile, she choked back tears. So many thoughts and feelings swirled through her as she stood in her room, not sure what to do, or how to tell her parents. She thought how upset the whole town would be when the news spread. How would she hold up at the funeral? How could she survive without the love of her life? The thoughts and feelings were unbearable, and she knew there was no way she would ever be the same. She knew he was special, and it would take a miracle for her to find another man like him. Months passed and Emily filled her days with work at Pete’s Diner, spending as much time as possible with Jonathan’s mother, knowing how impossibly difficult it must be to lose her only child and be alone in the world. Being with Jonathan’s mother was a way of being as close to him as she could, but it was painful to see how lost she was, how desolate. She noticed how his mother began drinking wine every afternoon, sometimes finishing a whole bottle before the dinner she made but rarely finished. The house was often dark when Emily arrived, and she always opened the curtains to let the sunlight in. Emily spent as little time as possible at home. She needed a change and so, a month after Jonathan’s death, she moved into a small apartment over Tony’s Pizza Shop, two blocks from the diner. She and her mother had never gotten along and her father was passive and distant. Her parents didn’t seem to like each other, so being around them was something she avoided. They grieved for her loss of Jonathan and worried about her, but the communication with her parents was superficial at best. She couldn’t confide in her mother because she was so judgmental and ready to give her opinions before Emily finished speaking. She felt her mother never really heard what she was saying, so she decided it was best to keep things to herself rather than be lectured. She knew she would never feel the compassion and acceptance she craved. It felt right for her to move out and fix up her own place with furniture, dishes and a few appliances from the Goodwill. Still grieving her loss of Jonathan, she imagined him with her, seeing him painting the walls, or sketching, but she would shake away those painful thoughts and try to read, or try out new recipes. She had her favorite photo of him on the table next to her bed and several pictures of them on her refrigerator door. It was hard for her to believe he wasn’t in her life. His absence would come to her like a thud and bring a burning ache to the back of her throat where she held back the tears that wanted to burst out. One day, six or so months after Jonathan’s death, a stranger walked into the diner. She noticed him lean his bicycle up against the railing on the steps to the entrance. He was probably in his late forties, she thought, and wondered what his story was. He started coming in every afternoon at one-thirty and always ordered the same thing, black coffee and a slice of apple pie. He was quiet and somewhat shy, but, after the second day, Emily asked his name so she could greet him when he came in. She liked the way he smiled and looked at her when he ordered his pie and coffee, which after a few days, he didn’t need to do because Emily just said, “Hi Walter. Let me guess--apple pie and coffee?” Emily usually worked from eight in the morning until two or two-thirty, depending on how much she needed to do to get ready for the next day. The diner closed at three, but they served dinner on the weekends. She made sure the sugar packets were on each table, the salt and pepper shakers refilled, ketchup bottles and syrup containers topped off, and the knives, forks and spoons were wrapped in napkins ready to put on the tables when customers sat down. After seeing him come in every afternoon, Emily was curious about the stranger. He always wore a denim jacket and faded jeans. His long graying hair curled up at the collar, his blue eyes twinkled behind-wire rimmed glasses. Sometimes he shaved but most days, she could see the stubble on his cheeks and chin. He sometimes read the newspaper or a book, but most days he wrote in a black covered notebook and she wondered what he was writing about so intensely. He always had two or three cups of coffee while he wrote, shoving the empty apple pie plate aside. Emily chuckled when she noticed how he wiped the pie crumbs from his mouth with the back of his hand rather than a napkin and remembered how Jonathan did that. For some reason, she was delighted when he walked in and their eyes would greet each other with a nod and smile, then she would bring him his pie and coffee. After that she didn’t pay much attention to him as she worked busily to finish her setting up for the next day. He would write in his journal, eat his pie, sip his coffee, occasionally glance up at Emily and their eyes would meet, then both would go back to what they were doing. Though, at first, she wasn’t attracted to him physically, he must have been twenty or so years older than Emily, there was something about him she liked, something in the way he smiled when she said, “Hi Walter,” the warm twinkle in his eyes, how intensely he wrote, taking sips of coffee and running his hands through his long hair, how he looked up at her and smiled when she refilled his mug. There was something in the way he said, “Thank you, Emily,” that touched her, made her curious about him, but also reluctant to ask him any questions. She sensed by his quiet shyness that he would not want to share much about his life. Still, she wondered what he was writing so intensely about, rarely looking up, except for his occasional glances at her before going back to his writing. There was something strange in the way their eyes met, something she couldn’t articulate, but liked. She found herself thinking about Walter when she was walking home, or washing dishes in her small apartment and she wondered why she was so fascinated by him. One summer day, several months after Walter started coming to the diner, Emily poured him his second mug of coffee and he looked up at her and out of the blue said, “You seem sad. Even though you always smile, you seem sad.” Emily was stunned by the statement. They had never conversed, never said anything other than the trivial greetings, but his sudden words surprised her. She just looked at him and tried to swallow her surprise before responding. “What makes you think I’m sad? I’m not sad.” “I don’t know why I said that. I just feel your sadness.” Walter looked into Emily’s eyes. “Sorry, I guess I shouldn’t have said that. I mean, we never really speak and I know nothing about you, but when I look at you, I feel your sadness.” “Are you an empathetic person?” Emily asked. “I don’t know,” he answered, chuckling. “I never thought of myself like that, but lately I seem to feel things I’ve never felt before. I can’t explain it.” Emily nodded and glanced down at his journal and saw the pen now lying on the page, still surprised that the first thing he would say to her was so intimate. “Are you sad?” Emily asked. “Maybe it’s your sadness you’re talking about, not mine.” She paused and gazed into Walter’s eyes. Walter shrugged his shoulders again. “I don’t know. It’s just strange that we’ve never really said much to each other and now we’re talking about sadness. That’s kind of weird, don’t you think?” “Yes, very.” Emily sighed deeply. “Well, I better get back to work. Let me know if you want more coffee.” She put the coffee pot back on the burner before going back to wrapping the silverware in napkins. Walter finished his coffee, closed his notebook and left the five dollar bill on the counter. It was the amount he left everyday and included Emily’s tip. “See you tomorrow.” He lifted his hand slightly, waving goodbye, then opened the door and left. When the door closed, Emily watched Walter walking away, get on his bike, and then, after wobbling for a moment, watched him continue riding down Main Street, still baffled by his question about sadness, especially since they had never really spoken to each other before. The next day when he walked in, Emily greeted him as usual, “Let me guess--apple pie and coffee” and they both laughed. When she served him, he thanked her. “So how are you today, Walter?” Emily smiled at him. “Well, that’s a personal question,” he answered and laughed. “I didn’t mean anything personal, but after you asked me yesterday if I’m sad, I thought I’d take a chance and pry into your life. You don’t have to tell me how you are if it’s too personal.” She laughed. “I’m just teasing.” “Well, if you really must know, I’m fine, really.” “Cool.” Emily laughed again. “I’m so glad to hear you’re fine,” she added, enjoying their playful banter and feeling more relaxed with him and glad that after months of never really speaking to each other, a barrier had been broken. Walter took a sip of his coffee, opened his notebook and glanced up at Emily. “Well, I need to get back to work.” “Work?” Emily asked. “What are you working on?” “Poetry,” he answered, taking a pen from the pocket of his denim jacket. “Really? Are you a poet?” Emily asked. “Oops, sorry, I’m prying.” “That’s okay. I don’t know if I’m a poet or not, but since my operation I’ve been writing poetry and drawing. I was never interested in poetry. In fact I hated it in high school and hardly ever read books. So this is new for me.” “That’s good, that’s cool. Well, I won’t bother you. Enjoy the pie.” She glanced down at his notebook then walked away and returned to the ketchup bottles she was refilling. Occasionally she looked at Walter writing intensely, curious about what he was writing. What a strange man she thought and felt her fascination growing, then she wondered about his operation. What was that about? To Emily, he looked so healthy, his twinkly blue eyes, his ruddy complexion, his mostly dark hair turning slightly gray. She remembered the spry way he hopped off his bicycle and entered the diner everyday. Though he was an older man, there was something youthful about him that she found appealing. When she came over to refill his coffee, she glanced down at his writing. “How’s the writing going?” she asked. “Oh, sorry to interrupt you.” He looked up at her, surprised to hear her words and looked like he had just come out of trance. “Fine, it’s hard. I think it’s going fine but I never know.” Looking at him, Emily thought he looked like he was coming back from someplace faraway, but there was something familiar in the way he spoke, the way their eyes met when he said, “I never know,” and suddenly, a strange, breathless feeling swelled up in her, a slight tingle that somehow thrilled her. “Well, I’ll let you get back to your work,” Emily said. “I didn’t mean to disturb you.” “No problem. I didn’t mind. I’m kind of glad you’re curious.” He smiled. “Oh thank you. I like watching how you concentrate on your writing. It’s interesting. It makes me wonder what you’re writing about.” “Well, maybe one day you’ll find out.” He glanced down at his journal then smiled back at Emily. “I’d like that,” she answered. “Well, back to the saltshakers.” “Right and I need to get back to this poem before I lose where I was.” Emily walked away while Walter continued writing. While she filled the salt and pepper shakers she thought about Walter and wanted to know more about him. She remembered how he suddenly showed up on his bicycle several months ago and started coming in every afternoon at the same time for his apple pie and coffee. She thought how quiet and shy he was until recently when they started having little conversations. She found it interesting that he started writing poetry and drawing after his operation. She remembered his saying it was new, something he had no interest in doing before, but now he loved it. The next day, Walter didn’t come in for his coffee and apple pie, and Emily kept looking at the door, surprised that she missed him and wondered if something was wrong. Maybe her probing bothered him; maybe he decided to leave town. It wasn’t unusual for Emily to be concerned about her customers. After so many years of serving the same people, she knew their stories. Sometimes, she would even sit down with them for a few minutes if she wasn’t busy, and they would confide in her. She prided herself in being a good listener, unlike her mother, and was careful not to give advice but to ask probing questions, helping them express what they were feeling and nodding as she listened. They always said, “You’re so easy to talk to.” I wonder what happened to Walter, she said to herself, thinking about his absence. She glanced up at the clock, her work almost finished. Maybe something came up, she thought, then took off her apron and stepped into the kitchen to say goodbye to Pete and Gary, the dishwasher, before she walked the two blocks to her apartment. Her door was on the side of Tony’s Pizza Shop and the whiff of various odors hit her as she entered, but fortunately, the smell would disappear once she was in her second floor apartment. She liked that Pete didn’t require a waitress’ uniform and she could wear a casual top with jeans or a skirt and in summer, Bermuda shorts. Her feet were usually sore when she got home, and the first thing she would do was take off her sneakers, sit on the side of her bed and rub her feet, then go barefooted into the tiny kitchen to see if Gabby, her cat, had water and food in her bowl. Her friend Susan’s cat had kittens a few months ago that needed to find homes and Emily liked the idea of having a kitten to take care of. Lying down on her bed, she glanced at the photo of Jonathan on her bedside table and thought about his smile and how much she missed him. She picked up the paperback book, Wuthering Heights, which she was reading for the third time and touched the worn cover, then stared at the picture of two lovers, then opened the book to where she had an old envelope used as a marker, but when she started to read, her mind drifted and she found herself thinking about Walter and wondering why, after months of coming into the diner every afternoon at the same time for the past three months, he hadn’t come in. Again, she hoped it wasn’t because of her prying and then wonder about the operation he said had changed him. What did he mean? What was he like before the operation? What's his story? When Walter came in the next day, she was glad to see him. “Hi Walter, let me guess—apple pie and coffee.” “How did you know?” He laughed. “Guess I’m psychic.” She chuckled, poured his coffee and brought him a slice of pie, then paused and held the coffee pot out to the side. “Missed you yesterday.” “Yeah, I had to go into Philadelphia for a checkup yesterday. I had to take the bus and didn’t get back until last night.” “Oh, I wondered. Is everything okay?” “Yep, things look good, they said.” Walter sipped his coffee and opened his notebook, reading over what he had recently written. “Well, I’ll leave you be,” Emily said and went into the kitchen and returned a few minutes later with a tray filled with white coffee mugs. She glanced over at Walter, but didn’t say anything. He was looking up at the ceiling, concentrating, as if the words he needed were coming from someplace above him. After a few minutes, he started writing and Emily was fascinated by the speed and intensity of his pen going across the page. He stopped for a sip of coffee and had only taken a few bites of his pie, but there was something familiar about the intense way he was writing that fascinated her. It made her watch him and want to know what he was writing. Emily finished stacking the mugs, then picked up the coffee pot and came over to top off Walter’s coffee. “Read something to me!” she suddenly blurted out, surprising herself. “What?” Walter said, startled out of his trance and looking up at Emily. “Sorry to interrupt, but I want you to read something to me. What were you just writing?” Stunned by Emily’s question, he stared at her. “You want me to read something?” “Yes, you said you would read something to me sometime. I’m so curious about what you’re writing. I know it’s none of my business, so it’s okay if you don’t want to.” Walter looked at her, still surprised at her bluntness. “Sorry, I shouldn
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t have interrupted you.” “No, that’s alright. Thank you for asking,” Walter answered. “Thank you for being interested.” “I am interested,” she said, surprised by his thanking her. “I’m not usually this rude.” “I’m glad you asked. I’ve wanted to read something to you for a long time but was afraid to say anything, so really, thank you for asking. You made it easier for me, but I must admit you took me by surprise.” “I was afraid to ask you, but watching you write so intensely made me so curious. I couldn’t help it.” Walter smiled again, their gazes meeting, neither of them speaking, the silence like the silence between notes of music, a silent pause that was as much a part of the music as the music. He took a deep breath and glanced down at his writing. “I started this poem this morning when it was still dark out and I stood at the window, looking up at the stars. It was just before dawn. It’s not finished, but I’ll read what I’ve written so far. “Great. I’m all ears.” Emily felt her fascination for this strange man growing. She watched him looking down at his words, closing his eyes as if gathering up his courage to read to her. “It’s called, ‘Good Morning Stars,’” he said, then took another deep breath before reading. Good morning, stars-- again our orbits cross, and I see your worlds high above my life, my eyes touching you, millions of miles away where we meet each dawn, your burning worlds swirling, though some are embers now, burnt out light years ago— a state I cannot know since news travels slowly across the universe and yet, your fire in my eyes pulls me towards your glow, and makes me wonder--am I with you high above my life? Are you burning in my mind, the universe inside of me, here where I spin through darkness never certain where my existence begins and ends? When he stopped, he took a deep breath and looked up at Emily. “That’s it so far. It’s not finished.” At first, Emily didn’t say anything but thought about what she had just heard and noticed the twinkle in his blue eyes behind his wire-rimmed glasses. “Wow! That’s amazing. I can’t believe you wrote that. It’s so cosmic.” “I can’t believe I wrote it either,” he said. “This is all new to me. I never thought about the stars, or the universe, or nature and my spirit.” “What do you mean?” she asked, puzzled. “You wouldn’t have liked me if you knew me last year. You would have thought I was a worthless scumbag.” “Really? Why, what do you mean?” He looked away before turning his eyes back to Emily. “I was a mess. I drank a lot. Smoked two packs of cigarettes a day, ate the slop at the fast food places, man, I was a regular. I was twenty pounds overweight and I always had a bad heart, ever since I was a kid, but then in the last few years I started having trouble breathing. I was always tired, could hardly get out of bed in the morning. I drank during the day, something I shouldn’t have done because I drove a truck. Well, to cut to the chase, I wrecked the truck, got fired, lost my license and there I was out of work, then the woman I lived with at the time kicked me out because of the drinking, and she wasn’t the first one who kicked me out, then one day, I collapsed right on the street. They took me to the emergency ward, then to intensive care and that’s when they told me my heart was shot. They said I wouldn’t make it unless I had a heart transplant.” “That’s some story,” Emily said. “Well, I was lucky. I was transferred to the University of Pennsylvania Hospital where they have specialists who do transplants and they put me into this computer system that finds organs for people--you know, matches them up, but they couldn’t find one with my blood type and other stuff that has to be right. I was always under oxygen and couldn’t keep my eyes open. I was weak. My time was running out and I was sure it was all over for me. Then one day there was this big commotion around me and they rushed me into the operating room, telling me they just found a heart that was a good match. They said I probably wouldn’t have made it until the weekend if they hadn’t found a heart. It was flown to the hospital from I don’t know where and that’s the story. They were pretty sure my body wouldn’t reject it. I had to stop smoking and drinking and the strange thing is, it was easy. I was in the hospital after the transplant for six weeks and couldn’t get cigarettes or booze, but I also didn’t have the craving I used to have, didn’t miss it one bit. “Anyway, since the operation I feel like a different person and now I just have to go back every few months for checkups. That’s where I went yesterday. I had to take the bus because I still don’t have a license. Now, I just ride my bike places and take long walks. It’s good exercise for me.” “Wow, you’re lucky.” “I am and I remember after the operation, I’d look out the hospital window and the trees looked so green and the sky looked so blue, the clouds looked so white. Everything was glowing and I felt like I had suddenly been born again, not in the Christian born again way, but like everything was different, like I was seeing life for the first time.” Emily could feel the excitement in his voice. She had never seen him so animated. He always seemed so reserved, so shy, so quiet, though she noticed the energetic way he hopped of his bike and the spry way he entered the diner each day. He would smile at Emily when she said, “Let me guess,” and Emily could see the lively twinkle in his eyes, but then he would get quiet, look away, open his notebook, reading over what was there and Emily thought, What a strange man. “So, Walt, how did you end up in Tomkinsville? We’re kind of in the middle of nowhere.” “Good question,” Walter answered, shaking his head. “I’ve been trying to figure that one out myself.” “Really? You don’t know why you ended up here?” she asked, holding the coffeepot out to the side and looking into Walter’s puzzled eyes. “But here I am.” He shrugged his shoulders. “So, tell me, I’m curious, Tomkinsville doesn’t seem like a place where someone like you would want to live. “Like me? What do you mean, like me?” “I don’t know. You just show up and start coming everyday for coffee and pie, hardly ever talk to anyone, just you and your bike and you say you write poetry. You’re different, that’s what I mean. I didn’t mean to offend you. It’s almost like you don’t belong here.” “Really? Is that what you think?” Walter put down his pen and took a sip of his coffee. He took a deep breath. “Well, it’s hard to explain, but I’m here because I think I do belong here, but I’m not sure why.” “That’s weird. What makes you think you belong here?” Walter sighed, looking down at his journal then back at Emily. “Well, the day I was released from the hospital, my friend, Al, who, at that time was my only friend, said he wanted to take me for a long drive in the country to get fresh air, see the farms, the cows. He said it would be good for me, told me he liked taking long drives and thought he would treat me to a day in the country. That’s what he said.” Emily nodded, listening, “So did you like that?” she asked, probing like she always did when people confided in her. “Yes, I did. We drove from Philly, then when we got to the Susquehanna River and went over the bridge, we turned on River Road and drove through a lot a little towns--some only two blocks long, some with signs showing how high the river got in the flood of 1955, then we came into Tomkinsville, and I saw this diner and the park and Partridge's Drug Store, and the high school and for some reason, I asked Al to stop the car. I said, “Stop. I want to look around this town and Al looked at me like I was crazy. ” “So did you?” Emily asked. “‘Why the hell do you want to look around this nothing town?’” he asked me. “‘I don’t know. I just do,’” I told him. “‘Come on, just stop for a few minutes.’” So, he did. He pulled over in front of McGregor’s hardware store on the next block and I got out and I walked around. I even walked up to this diner and stood outside looking at it and thought about going in like I was drawn to it. I wanted to go in and get a cup of coffee, but Al said, “‘Let’s get going,’” and so that was that. We drove on for awhile, then went over another bridge and came back on the other side of the river then drove back to Philly, but I remember looking across the river at Tomkinsville, not sure why I was so fascinated by this town.” “Interesting,” Emily said, nodding, looking at Walter. She returned the coffee pot to the burner, then came around and sat on the stool next to Walter. “Then what happened? How come you decided to come and live here?” “Another good question,” Walter said, turning to face Emily. “I’ve never seen you sit down before.” “Well, I do from time to time, especially when one of the customers wants to talk. I’m kind of the mother confessor around here,” Emily said, chuckling. “So, tell me, why did you decide to live in Tomkinsville, of all places?” “Well, when I got back home to Philly with my new heart, I decided I wanted to make sure I didn’t get back into my old habits and thought I should take off to some place new. Start over, do you know what I mean?” Walter asked. “I just knew I needed to make a big change.” Emily nodded. “And?” she asked, urging Walter to keep talking. “And I remembered stopping in this town that day and for some reason liking it. I couldn’t drive, so I decided to take the bus here with a few things in a backpack, got a room at Miss Henderson’s. Do you know her? She’s got a house on Parker Street?” “Of course I know her. She was my fifth grade teacher. Anyway, I know everybody in this town,” Emily said. “So you just decided to show up and live in this town. That’s so cool.” “I guess you could say I was drawn here. I like it around here and I take long bike rides and walks. I like exploring. I have a part-time job gardening for a few people, but recently I’ve been drawing a lot and when I can afford it, I want to start painting. I’ve never painted before, but when I stand on Walker’s Hill and I look down at the town, or sit on that dock where people keep their boats. I want to paint a picture of the river.” “I think I can find you some paint,” Emily said. “I know where there’s paint that hasn’t been used and I could get it for you.” “Really? That would be great. I can’t explain it, but suddenly, I’ve had this urge to paint. I like writing poetry but, I want to see if I can capture the light, the ripples on the river.” When he spoke and looked into Emily’s eyes, she was captivated by his intensity. “My boyfriend used to paint,” Emily said. “Used to paint?” Walter asked. “So your boyfriend doesn’t paint anymore?” Thinking about Jonathan’s paints and Walter wanting to paint brought a rush of feeling over Emily and she remembered how much Jonathan loved painting, how he wanted to be the best artist possible. “How come he doesn’t paint anymore?” Walter asked. “He was killed about eight months ago in a motorcycle accident,” Emily said. “Horrible. Oh, I’m so sorry. I didn’t know.” “How could you? You just came to this town a little while ago. You couldn’t have known about Jonathan.” “That’s true. In fact I know nothing about you either,” Walter said, pausing, looking into Emily’s eyes, “I hope you don’t mind my saying this, but I think you’re beautiful.” “Oh, you do? Well, thank you.” Emily felt her cheeks reddening, stunned by the way he just blurted out those words. “I can’t believe I’m sitting here talking to you,” he said. “I’ve been coming here since the day I arrived, wishing I could get up the nerve to talk to you. I started coming here everyday when I knew you wouldn’t be busy. I didn’t just come in for the pie and coffee, I came to see you.” “Really? I had no idea.” “How could you?” Walter chuckled. “Until the other day we hadn’t said more than two words to each other. All you would say is, ‘Let me guess…apple pie and coffee.’ and that was it.” Emily took a deep breath. “Yeah, well, I guess we broke the ice, opening up like that. You know my story and I know yours.” “I’m sorry about Jonathan.” “Thanks,” Emily said, nodding. “Well, if I can find Jonathan’s paints I will bring them in tomorrow. You can have them.” “Will that be hard for you, just giving me his paints?” “No, not at all. If you knew Jonathan you would understand. He was very generous. He’d give a stranger the shirt off his back, that’s how he was. He was a very special person and really talented. He also wrote poetry and loved to paint. You would have liked him.” “Well thanks,” Walter said, finishing his coffee and closed his notebook. “I’m keeping you from working and I better get going. I want to go for a bike ride before it gets too late.” Okay,” Emily said, hopping off of the stool. “I’ll bring the paints in tomorrow, also brushes. See you.” She went back behind the counter. The next day when Walter came in, she gave him the gray plastic box with Jonathan’s tubes of oil paint and a paper bag filled with brushes. “You’ll have to make your own palette. I couldn’t find his and you can get things to paint on at McGregor’s Hardware, that’s where Jonathan got stuff. He liked painting on pieces of wood. Sometimes he made canvasses.” So, Walter started painting. He wrote in the morning. A few mornings he went to his gardening job, but every afternoon he came in for apple pie and coffee after having lunch in his room at Miss Henderson’s, usually canned soup he heated up on the hot plate. He’d write in his journal while Emily prepared everything for the next day, but they always ended up having conversations, often having deep discussions about life, or Walter telling her he was painting the sheep in the pasture on Kinghill Farm, or, the big old chestnut tree at the rear of the park. One day, he told Emily about this beautiful, magical spot he found and went to every day. It was about a ten minute bike ride out of town and he loved painting there, but there was something else that surprised her. He started calling her “Em” instead of Emily. He’d say, “Em, you should have seen the fish jumping in the pond and now there’s a couple of swans that live there.” No one ever called her “Em” except Jonathan, and it surprised her at how natural it felt. She liked the way he said it and would feel a warm ripple go through her that reminded her of how she felt when Jonathan called her that. Walter’s voice resonated in her with a strange vibration that felt comforting but also puzzling. She found herself staring at Walter, trying to understand what it was about him that was captivating her, why she was so eager to see him come into the diner and tell her what he was painting and when he said, “Em,” she felt a chill and goose bumps on her arms. More and more she felt drawn to this older man with his graying hair, and now, rather than being shy with her, he was now exuberant, delighted to tell her what he was painting, occasionally reading her a new poem. They both were sharing more of themselves in the empty diner while Emily filled the salt and pepper shakers, or stopped to have a cup of coffee with him. Something came over Emily one afternoon when Walter said, “Well, it’s been ten months since my operation and there’s no sign my heart is being rejected. I have to go for a checkup next week and if everything is okay, I don’t have to go back for a year.” “That’s good,” Emily said, and then remembered. “Jonathan was killed ten months ago.” “Ten months, wow,” Walter said then laughed. “If you could have seen me ten months ago, you wouldn’t recognize me. I mean, I still can feel what a jerk I was, and I feel guilty how I treated people, especially women. I can’t believe it was me and now I feel so different.” “You’re lucky to be alive. You’re lucky they found the right heart for you when they did or you wouldn’t be here.” “Yeah, that was a close call,” Walter said, closing his eyes. “Now I feel blessed.” Listening to Walter, looking at his eyes as he spoke, Emily wondered what was so fascinating about him and she realized she was feeling things about him she never thought she would ever feel about a man again. One day, she asked, “This spot you go to, this special place you go to every day to paint, would you take me there?” “Of course,” Walter said. “If you really want to see it, I’ll take you there. You’re going to love it. I know you will.” “Cool, can we go today? I have a bike at my place. I hardly ride it anymore, but I feel like going there with you, how about it?” Suddenly Emily felt excited about being with Walter somewhere other than Pete’s Diner. “I was going there anyway, so yes, finish up here and we’ll take off. We can go get your bike,” he said, swallowing the last of his coffee and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. When she saw that, it again reminded her of Jonathan. After she finished filling the salt and pepper shakers, Emily went into the kitchen and waved goodbye to Pete and Gary. “I’m out of here. See you guys tomorrow,” she said, picking up her big yellow canvas bag with a variety of things she took with her, including her thermos of water. When she got her bicycle from the basement of Tony’s Pizza shop, she said, “Wait here, I’ll be right back” and she ran up the stairs, picked up the blanket she wanted and stuffed it in her canvas bag, fed her cat Gabby and petted her. She was wearing jeans and put on a sweatshirt over her t-shirt in case it got chilly, then dashed down the steps. “Let’s go. I’m psyched to see this spot of yours.” Her bike riding was a little wobbly at first, but then she quickly got into a groove and followed Walter out of town, up the steep hill which took some effort, but then they could coast down the other side, her long, dark hair blowing in back of her. They now rode their bikes side by side. She remembered the many times she rode on the back of Jonathan’s motorcycle. Walter looked at her and smiled. “Almost there.” When they turned off the road and pedaled the narrow path through the woods, Emily was not surprised to find where they were going, and when they came to the clearing and she saw Grover’s Pond, she was now surer than ever that what she was beginning to suspect was becoming clearer. “This is it,” Walter said. “I come here everyday.” Emily looked out at the water then at everything around her, the old willow tree, the two gnarled apple trees, the ducks and swans on the water, the sound of frogs croaking. It all came back to her. She closed her eyes, breathing in the smell of the grass where she had stood so many times with Jonathan. She lifted the yellow canvas bag from the handlebars of her bicycle, took out Jonathan’s old Indian blanket, unfolded it and flapped it out over the grass. “What a beautiful blanket,” Walter said, looking at it, watching Emily kneel down smoothing it out. She sat down on the blanket, looking at the water then up at Walter. “Sit with me.” When he sat down, she turned to him. “I’ve been here before,” she said. “I know,” Walter responded. “You remember this blanket, don’t you,” she said. “Yes, I remember this blanket.” Emily looked at him, nodding, smiling. “Make love to me.” And they did, lying on the blanket, kissing gently at first then with growing intensity. While kissing, their tongues swirled in each other’s mouths, and then Emily rolled on top, straddled him and looked deeply into his blue eyes. She leaned forward and again, their kissing became intense, their tongues swirling, their heat rising, their bodies grinding harder against each other. Emily could feel his hardness pressing into her wetness and she felt the overwhelming need to know again what she hadn’t known since Jonathan died. His hands gripped her ass through the thin denim of her jeans as she slid up and down the length of his jean-covered cock, their grinding and humping, more than she could bear. She wanted nothing more than to be devoured by him and suddenly, she rolled off of him onto her back. Lying next to him, she squirmed out of her jeans and panties while Walter did the same, then within seconds, he embraced her, kissing her madly. He lifted her T-shirt and kissed her breasts, licking and sucking her nipples, his hands touching her in the magical way she remembered. His passion filled her with the desire to open and give herself to him. She wrapped her strong legs around his back and pulled him into her and felt the power of his strong thrusts getting faster and harder, their breathing growing ragged, their moaning sounds, so familiar, getting louder, quickly bringing both of them closer and closer to exploding. Unable to hold back, she lifted her hips from the blanket wanting only to receive and devour what he was giving her. They moved faster and harder, her orgasm rising, then felt their bodies tensing, trembling and then writhing in overwhelming convulsions and ecstatic screams that shattered the quiet air and rose like a crescendo through the trees before Walter collapsed on Emily’s satisfied body, both of them panting and unable to budge, both gasping for air, while soft sobbing tears fell from her eyes. After a few minutes, he rolled onto his back, breathing deeply, gathering Emily in his arms, where she lay, half on him, her head on his chest and she heard the wonderful thumping of the heart she remembered.

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