But. . . it wasn’t enough.
Then she remembered that Friday was coming up, and she had promised the other three of the Gang of Four that she’d have pages to read. She enjoyed reading aloud, and she knew that they liked to see her writing. Whether or not her stories were any good, she sensed that part of their gladness was that writing meant she was getting over the grief they were helpless to fix.
She showered and got on her bike to return to the studio for her evening classes.
On her return, she walked into the living room and sat down at her laptop. This latest story had begun with a setting inspired by Robert’s and her stay in Finland, where she had been entranced by the Northern Lights whenever she could steal a moment from work. But as she began typing, bits of her memories of the Aegean coast began slipping in: first, the scent of spices in the air. Then her first taste of lemon soup, and then the little goats following her everywhere . . .
She came out of the scene realizing she has transformed everything—including the hero, who now had intelligent black eyes, soft, curving lips with a wicked dimple at one side that only appeared when he laughed, and long hair tied back in a ponytail.
Ooops.
Well, no one would know, she thought as she firmly changed that ponytail back to a blonde crew cut, then saved the file and shut down for the night.
When she climbed into bed, she curled on her right side, as had been her habit for years, hand tucked between the pillow and the side of the mattress to anchor her. But then she rolled onto her back. And tentatively, first her hand, then her foot, ventured onto the other side of the bed. She lay there like a starfish, hogging the entire bed.
The world did not collapse.
She slid into sleep, and woke up more refreshed than she had for a long time.
Full of energy—and, she admitted to herself—curiosity and anticipation, she hastened through her morning routine, pausing long enough to swallow down some instant oatmeal and a scrambled egg for protein. Then she set out at a slow jog for the kung fu studio, which usually took between twelve and fifteen minutes, whether she ran, biked, or on rare rainy days, took the bus.
When she reached the studio, she found Cleo and Petra out on the sidewalk, waiting with Bird. “I brought the girls to your class,” Bird said, a little breathlessly.
“No Nikos?” Jen asked, startled at the sharp sense of disappointment that gripped her.
“He’s still with Mikhail and Joey at the archeological dig. Nikos knows something about the artifact they think is buried there. So I brought the girls myself.”
Before Jen could ask how Bird had managed to convey two girls when she only owned a bike, Bird went on quickly, “But I have an appointment. When it’s over, could you take them to the beach? Their guardian is there with Mikhail and Joey, over at the landslide.”
Jen was about to admit that she no longer had a car, then reflected that the shore was barely a mile away. “Sure,” she said, aware that she would get to see Nikos again.
Bird was already edging away. “Thanks, Jen. Have fun, girls!” Bird wheeled her bike around, and peddled away.
Jen turned to the pair of excited, expectant faces. “Come on inside. Stash your shoes and warm up—”
“Hi! Oh, new students?”
Jen whirled, to see Ximena Valdes, Master Reynaldo’s daughter, who had just begun college. Ximi was working on her second degree black belt.
“Ximi,” Jen said. “Petra and Cleo are out of town visitors. Could I turn them over to you while I set up class?”
Ximi, popular and outgoing, grinned. “Come on! Which one is Petra? Cool name . . .”
Chattering introductions, the three girls raced inside ahead of Jen, who brought out the weapons racks and protective gear.
Jen hadn’t realized how much she’d looked forward to sparring with Nikos again until he wasn’t there. Still, she fell into the rhythm of class. The hour went by fast, as it always did when the students were eager.
After the lesson and partner sparring, Ximi pressed the girls to demonstrate their own weapons forms. Though Jen had to divide her time between all the students, she noticed the three girls bonding over Petra’s scimitar form, which was so cool the class spontaneously clapped when Petra whirled the sword up behind her and took a bow.
After class ended, Jen was not at all surprised when Cleo exclaimed, “Ximi invited us to go in a car, to see a movie! In a movie house! And then a beach picnic.” She sounded a lot more awe-struck at the first, though she was clearly excited about all three prospective treats. “Can you take us to our kyrios so we can ask permission?”
“If we jog, it’s only a few minutes away,” Jen said.
Ximi spoke up. “If you tell me where to go, I can drive us all.”
Cleo’s eye widened. She whispered, “We get to ride in a car now?”
Petra whispered back in their language, and Cleo blinked, then said with a sudden assumption of vast sophistication, “Of course we know all about cars. But not American ones—”