Outside the Ordinary World Read Online Free PDF Page B

class. Vacation week, last year?”
    “Oh, right—of course.” I remembered Eli, with his sullen good looks and his insistence on too much red. And now I remembered Tai, too, who came only once to pick up his son and lingered awhile, examining my watercolors, talking about Paul Klee and California scrub oaks. I remembered that afternoon—how prematurely warm it was, how I had to open a window as we talked, how the icicles dripped onto the tin roof below—because it had a kind of thick, surreal quality, like this one. Even as I lifted Emmie onto my hip, unwrapped her lollipop, I felt outside my body, watching from a safe distance across the room. “You bought one of my landscapes,” I said, ignoring Hannah, who was now tugging on my belt loops. “The one with the water tower—what is it, Han?”
    “Can I get one of those jewelry boxes, since you do owe me, like, forty-five dollars.”
    “I owe you twenty-five, for your information, and I don’t have it. Go find your lip balm.”
    “But it’s only fifteen, and it would be perfect in my collection, and anyway, you said—”
    “I don’t have it, okay? I just brought a ten, so save your breath!” My daughter, who is normally charming in front of strangers, rolled her eyes, sighed with histrionic exasperation and stomped off. “She used to be sweet,” I said under my breath.
    “I know. It’s almost criminal, the way they turn on you. Like bunnies with rabies. My son is almost seventeen—well, you remember.”
    “The sullen type.”
    “Yeah. A bit more than sullen.”
    “Has talent, though.”
    “Well, he loved your class,” said Tai, toweling off the leg of his jeans with his kerchief. “I think he’s planning to take your watercolor workshop this fall.”
    “Okay, I’d better get more red paint.” I laughed.
    “I still stare at that painting of yours. Scrub oaks in the fog—and that amazing old water tower. It’s got this ghostly light—people are always commenting.”
    “I’m glad it’s found a good home.” The heat moved up my throat, spreading quietly as a curse. I’ve always blushed like a burning bush at the slightest provocation, giving myself away. “I can’t tell you how many times I changed that painting—it was my last landscape.” I shifted Emmie’s weight on my hip, swept a spiral of unwashed hair from my eyes.
    “Now that seems criminal.” There was that searing smile again, and I found myself wishing I’d shampooed or at least put on some lipstick before leaving. But of course, I never would have. It’s always such a feat just mobilizing the four of us on Sundays. And now I remembered Nathan back at the site, waiting. I could picture him on the other side of his newly installed slider, hands on his swimmer’s hips, ready for a break. I could almost feel his impatience, his need for caffeine itching through those thick veins. It’s a precarious thing, sometimes, knowing someone so well.
    “I have to bring my husband a coffee. Let me get you one, too, since, well—” I indicated his stained jeans, the ruined Times.
    “No, no. You’re sweet, but…” He tossed the kerchief on the counter, nudged his glasses up the ridge of his nose. I was intrigued and repelled by his New York accent, the slow deliberation of his gestures. “Save your money for that jewelry box.” He winked. “I’ve had way too much coffee anyway. Look, my hands are shaking.”
    “It’s true, they are. At least let me buy you a new paper. I mean, look at it!”
    “Tell you what.” He tucked his lower lip into his mouth—a generous mouth, shapely as a woman’s. “You can treat me to coffee sometime.”
    “Sometime?” I giggled like a girl, despising myself.
    “There’s that new café by your studio, the earthy-crunchy place. I think it’s called The Wild Rose.”
    “Uh, it’s just…”
    “How about a Tuesday morning?” His right hand grazed the skin of my wrist—the same wrist gripping my forty-pound girl—his fingertips as