She stirred her drink. “I love how earnestly you ask that question. Most people are filled with such doubt when referring to writers and poets professionally. But you’re completely
sincere.”
“My dad reacted that way. I guess that’s why I’m a teacher. At the end of the day, I still had to pay the bills.”
“I rarely do anything because I have to pay the bills. If I don’t love it, I don’t do it.”
“Do you work now?” he asked.
She wiggled her fingers. “My sister says I hummingbird.”
“I’m intrigued,” he admitted.
“I work at a coffee shop, not this one, and I work occasionally at a used bookstore. I work two days a week at Hospice House in downtown Lansing. In the summer, I work on a lavender farm part time. Hence, I flit from place to place like a hummingbird.”
He chuckled. “My head spins just hearing about all those jobs. How do you keep track?”
She paused and tilted her head, swaying slowly in her chair.
“The Man I Love,” she murmured.
His eyes widened.
“Billie Holiday.” She gestured to the speaker behind them.
She watched him incline his head as if straining to hear the low, sweet melody, and then his face softened when he caught the tune.
“Yes, right there,” she told him. She closed her eyes and listened, drifting for a time on Holiday’s yearning.
When she opened her eyes, Wes watched her with unshielded desire.
Another long stare. She took in the heart-shaped curve of his upper lip, his slightly crooked front tooth and most dazzling, the flecks of firelight in his blue irises.
“That’s how I keep track,” she offered, feeling the same fire in his eyes leap high into her throat and crawl to her face. “I live in the moment. That’s it. I don’t organize my life; I don’t create routines. Every day is new. I greet the morning unburdened by habitual ways of being. We never know how much time we have left in this life. I try to live every day like it’s my last.”
Wes leaned back in his chair, his coffee forgotten. “I want to do that. My alarm goes off every morning at six fifteen a.m., and I operate on auto-pilot until noon,” he said. “I can’t remember the last time I had an original thought while drinking my coffee or even tasted it!”
Crystal inhaled the scent of her café au lait, the slightly sweet froth and the deeper, darker coffee aroma at the center.
“Do it right now.” She gestured at his cup. “Lean in and smell it.”
“I already drank it,” he laughed.
“But it lingers. Go on, inhale the memory of it.”
Wes leaned over his cup.
“Close your eyes,” she told him.
He did.
“Tell me about it.”
His long lashes fluttered on his cheeks, and a small smile curved his parted lips. It was a playful smile, but Crystal had serious intentions. She’d known this man would come into her life for years. That he was the one, to use that naïve and often misunderstood label.
It wasn’t girlish vanity that told her Weston Meeks was meant to be in her life. It was the same ability that told her he loved espresso with two sugars, that he had secrets he wanted to share but feared the repercussions if he did so.
“Rich,” he said, breathing deeply. “Like dark chocolate melting on your tongue as you lean in close to a wood fire…” he trailed off and opened his eyes.
They sat that way, staring at each other, silent, until the waitress arrived to refill their waters.
Weston laughed and brushed a hand through his long hair.
“Thanks,” he told Polly. He returned his gaze to Crystal’s. “I don’t think I’ve ever truly appreciated my espresso until this moment.”
Crystal smiled. “It’s amazing how vibrant the world is when we pay attention.”
He nodded and gazed around the coffee shop. She watched his eyes linger on the brightly colored paintings on the wall before drifting to a clear display case filled with bowls of fresh fruit.
“It’s also amazing what the fire does to your red hair. You look like Brigid, the Celtic goddess with flaming hair,” he told her.
“The goddess of what?”
“Fertility,” he admitted. “And interestingly enough, poetry.”
“Then she must be a kindred spirit," Crystal agreed. “Do you love your job, Professor?” she asked.
He looked at her and nodded slowly, as if not entirely sure how to answer the question.
“Yes. I have days where I long for a more creative life, I guess. I miss playing music and staying up all night writing poetry by candlelight. Maybe I’m just guilty of painting the past in a golden light. I am just the same as when our days were a joy, and our paths through flowers,” he murmured.
“That’s lovely. Did you write it?”
He smiled and shook his head. “Not at all. It’s from the poem After a Journey by Thomas Hardy. Hardy wrote often of the past and his yearning for times gone by. You’ll learn about him. I teach him every semester in my classes. Probably because his poetry resonates with me.”
“You long for the past?” she asked.
“Not really. I have an ugly past. I long for my dream of the past. I’m a liar, you see. I remember it differently than it was.”
“I’d call you a dreamer, not a liar,” she disagreed. “Maybe your subconscious is trying to help you change the present so you can have a golden past someday.”
Again, their eyes met. Neither of them spoke, and Crystal’s breath caught. She wanted to freeze the moment, the warm light from the faux Tiffany lamps, the smell of coffee, and the sense that something extraordinary was about to begin.
The bell on the door jingled and a man and woman, arm in arm, burst into the cafe bringing with them a flurry of snow.
Weston stared at the door and Crystal knew he was going to leave.
She smiled up at him as he stood.
“This has been really wonderful, Crystal. I have to go, though. I have class bright and early.”
“Until next time,” she told him, offering her hand.
He took it, but didn’t shake it. He held it tightly and then released her, slipping into his coat as he hurried toward the door.
5
Now
When Bette reached home, she paused with her blinker on, staring at the empty driveway, the driveway of the home she and Crystal had grown up in.
Bette’s shoulders sagged. She’d hoped to see Crystal’s VW Beetle parked there, hoped to walk into the house to find her sister boiling water for tea and rattling off a thousand excuses for her tardiness. But the driveway stood empty.
In the entryway, the little red button glowed on her machine.
“Please be Crystal, please be Crystal,” she repeated as she hit play.
“Hi, Bette, it’s Dad. I just got home and listened to your message. I haven’t seen Crystal. Is everything okay? Call me back ASAP.”
Message two:
“I’m calling for Bette Childs. This is Gloria at the Lansing Public Library. The books you put on hold have come in. You can pick them up anytime.”
No more messages.
Bette slumped over the machine.
She picked up the receiver and dialed Crystal’s number. It rang five times before her machine picked up.
She listened to Crystal’s cheery message, imagining her sister recording it as she doodled flowers on the notepad next to her phone.
“Crystal, it’s Bette. I’m starting to panic now, okay? I just reported you missing at the police station and I really need you to call me back. If you get this, when you get this, call me back. I’m serious. Don’t even stop to pee. CALL ME BACK!”