Beneath the Scars

“Aren’t your feet cold, Zachary?”

He glanced down and shrugged, still facing the water, not even acknowledging the fact I knew his name. “Not really. I’m used to the cold.”

I decided to try a different subject—maybe one that would open him up a little. “I saw your work at the gallery in town; you’re very gifted.”

Again, he nodded.

“Your Tempest painting is”—I searched for the right word— “exceptional.”

“It’s not for sale.”

Disappointed at his words, I studied his partially hidden profile. Again, his jaw was covered in stubble, and all I could really see was his nose and the downturned set of his full mouth. Some wayward hair sticking out from his beanie was blowing in the wind, its color not easy to make out. I was sure it was dark, but I couldn’t see enough to determine if I was correct. I wanted to step forward, force him to look at me, but there was something about his tense stance that screamed “back off.” He was obviously uncomfortable with me being this close, so I remained where I was, even though I felt some bizarre sort of need to get closer. I had to struggle not to move beside him, slip my hand into his, and offer him some sort of comfort, to loosen the tense set of those broad shoulders. I shook my head at the strange urge.

“Would you perhaps reconsider?”

“No. Jonathon already inquired on your behalf. I have it on loan to the gallery as a personal favor. It’s not for sale—at any price.”

I smiled, attempting to tease him. “Everything has its price, Zachary.”

I wasn’t prepared for the venom in his voice when he spoke.

“I’m fucking aware that’s the way most of the world works. I don’t conduct my life that way.”

Then he turned and walked away, his long strides eating up the distance, his unbuttoned coat billowing out behind him. He whistled for Elliott, who dropped the stick from his mouth and chased after his master.

Both Dixie and I stood staring at the retreating figures. Not once did Zachary pause or look back, while Elliott raced ahead of him. I waited until he had climbed the stairs and disappeared from sight, never taking my eyes off him.

I blinked and looked over the water.

Now I could say I had met my neighbor.

That went well.* * *The fresh air helped, but the ache lingered in the back of my head, making me feel sluggish. Dixie and I spent the rest of the afternoon quietly napping on the sofa, watching a movie, and in an effort to be somewhat productive, I made some banana bread—the only thing I could bake with any success. As it cooled on the counter, I looked out the window; the sun was beginning its slow descent for the night, breaking through the low hanging clouds. Crystalized colors reflected off the water, light dappling on the long swells. I walked onto the deck, breathing in the crisp air and letting the sounds drift over me. Movement caught my eye and I was surprised to see Zachary on top of the rock formation, a camera held to his face. One leg was bent behind him as he crouched, his upper body twisting and moving as he sought the perfect angle. His overcoat had been replaced with a long, gray hoodie and jeans hugged his stretched legs. I felt bad for upsetting him earlier and as the scent of fresh coffee hit me, I came up with an idea on how to apologize. Hurrying inside, I filled a small basket and with a deep breath for courage, walked toward the rocks.* * *ZacharyI felt her before I saw her. There was a subtle shift to the air around me, a break in my concentration and I knew she was coming toward me. My instant reflex was to make sure my loose hood was up, and I was angled away from her. The temptation to turn and walk away quickly was strong, but I stopped myself; I refused to run away again.

“Hello,” her gentle, quiet voice spoke. She was close—far too close for my liking and instinctively I shifted away but nodded in silent greeting. Her next words surprised me.

“I’m sorry about earlier. I didn’t mean to insult you.”

I lowered the camera and glanced her way, my throat tightening. The sun was catching her hair, turning it into rich, rivers of color—the strange light surrounding us cast hundreds of highlights through her gorgeous tresses—more than I could possibly ever reproduce on canvas. My fingers itched to try, though. Her expression was sad—remorseful, and I felt ashamed of my harsh words earlier. I had been the rude one, not her.

But I didn’t want, couldn’t, encourage her. I shrugged and lifted the lens back up. “It’s fine.”

A small basket was pushed in front of me. “I, ah, brought you some coffee and banana bread. I made it myself.”