“I wouldn’t take an apology if you tried to offer one,” she says, and her gaze is finally wrested from mine by a big family with three kids, the smallest of whom wedges her way between us. The father apologizes. “I’ve been wanting to go to this for weeks. Should we go look at the rest of the exhibit? You can read the plaques and I can marvel.”
“I promise not to tell you what they say,” I tell her, and we turn away from the paper flowers and the heat lamp.
“You can tell me,” she says as we enter the tunnel, light glinting from her eyes, her hair. “Just let me wonder for a few moments first.”
There’s a family coming from the opposite end of the arched tunnel with a stroller and a little kid, and as Thalia moves right to make space, her knuckles bump into mine.
“Sorry,“ she murmurs, then looks up at me as I slide my hand into hers.
“Don’t be,” I say, simply, and we walk along hand in hand.Chapter FourThaliaCaleb takes my hand and the strangest thing happens: I’m not nervous. Not even a little.
I’m excited, and I’m giddy. My heart is thumping and my pulse is raised and I can feel the adrenaline coursing through my veins, adrenaline and oxytocin and buckets and buckets of hormones, and that all lights up a lot of the same neural pathways as anxiety, but it’s not the same.
Anxiety is a kind of fear. Excitement is a kind of happiness. Close but different, mirror reflections of one another.
“What next?” he asks, giving my hand a slight squeeze, maybe unconscious. “The Serpent’s Orchard or Moondial?”
He looks down at me as he talks, his voice sending a shiver down my back.
Which one is the most secluded? I want to ask.
“The orchard,” I say, and we exit the long arched pathway, emerge into a colonnaded path, the only lights wrapped around the base of each column. It makes the garden feel like a spaceship.
“Then I think we go right, if memory serves,” Caleb says. “I’ve only been here a few —”
“LEVI!” a voice hollers, breaking through the quiet murmurs of art appreciation.
“Oh, come on,” Caleb mutters, mostly to himself.
I wonder, for a moment, if I’m in some sort of wacky comedy where my date has lied about who he is and his true identity is about to be revealed by accident.
“Levi!” says the voice, closer now. “Oh, thank fuck you’re here. Levi, I am in a damn pickle because it’s Sunday night and none of the rednecks in this town —"
Caleb closes his eyes and sighs deeply.
“I’m sorry about this,” he tells me, quietly.
“ — Just goes to voicemail and I ask you, how does anyone do business —"
The shouter stomps up along side us. We all stop walking, lit from below by an unearthly purple.
“Hello, Vivian,” Caleb says.
“ — ah, shit,” she answers, frowning, looking him over. Her face is lined and she’s got an unruly black mane, streaked with gray. She’s standing there rigidly, feet firmly planted, like she’s ready to fight or lift something heavy. The work boots and coveralls she’s wearing, the latter splashed with paint, suggest that the latter is more likely.
Then: “Maybe you’ll do. Can you swing a hammer?”
His hand tightens on mine, just for a moment.
“It’s nice to see you,” he says, with more than an edge of irritation to his voice. “This is my date, Thalia. We were just enjoying your show.”
“Lovely. Charmed,” she says, pushing huge, thick glasses up her nose, barely glancing at me. “You helped him build that house, right?”
“Caleb,” he says, still irritated, pointing to himself.
I’m looking back and forth between the two of them, and I’ve got the strange feeling that I’m watching two completely different conversations. It’s been long enough since the Smurf’s Vacation that I’m pretty much sober by now, but this sure doesn’t make me feel like it.
“Yes, I know which one you are,” she says, sounding annoyed as she pushes huge, thick glasses further up her nose. “And I also know that the sea monster just broke yet again because the original builders ignored my detailed design notes and now the jaw’s hanging off and it’s not much more than a slack-jawed snake.”
“This is Vivian Atwell, the artist,” Caleb says to me, still having a different conversation from the woman in front of us.
I have no idea which one to respond to.
“Nice to meet you,” I tell her as she glances over her shoulder. “The morning glories were lovely.”
“Yes, they’re nice,” she says, distracted. “But they’re not broken, are they?”
“Nope,” I say flippantly, well aware that the question is rhetorical.
“Well, the sea monster is and you’re the only person I’ve found so far with a chance in hell of righting it,” she says, now talking to Caleb again. “Come on.”