Fire and Water

by Amanda Kayhart

  “No.” Michelle shook her head, staring at the table. “No. It’s his party. His house. I just wasn’t aware you two had gotten so acquainted.”

  “We have.” Diane smiled. “Over the last few weeks.”

  “Mm.” Michelle nodded.

  “We have a pleasant connection, he and I.”

  Michelle crossed her arms. “He’s pleasant with everyone.”

  “I was unsure initially, about attending,” Diane continued, cold sweat collecting on her lower back, “but he said I’d fit right in.”

  Michelle stared up at her. Her coolness nipped at Diane.

  “Anyway, that’s why I made you a pie.” Diane studied Michelle as she continued chilling her with her fixed expression. “However, putting tomorrow night aside, I wanted to make amends,” she said. “Considering we’ll be neighbors for a while.”

  “Will we?” Michelle’s eyebrows rose.

  “Yes. We will be,” Diane said slowly, thoughtfully, gathering the correct words as she eyed the ceiling. “And my mother always said there wasn’t anything that couldn’t be fixed with something heartfelt from the kitchen.”

  Michelle snickered. “I didn’t realize anything was broken.”

  “Not per se.” Diane mustered enough courage to look at her again. “Does she ever do that with you?”

  “Who?”

  “Your mother,” Diane said. “Does she offer you handy little life lessons like that?”

  “No.”

  Diane flinched.

  “She doesn’t.” Michelle stood quickly, snatching her coffee mug. “If you don’t mind, I need to get to work.”

  “Michelle, wait,” Diane swallowed and stepped closer. She closed her eyes briefly and took a breath. “I’m sorry. We got off on the wrong footing, and I’m trying my best to repair this situation. Except, I keep saying the wrong things. Or my intentions are misconstrued. Somehow. The last thing I want to do is irritate you further.”

  Pausing, Michelle dropped her head with a sigh. She scratched the back of her neck. “We’re fine.”

  Diane narrowed her eyes. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes.” Michelle took one, last hit of coffee, which had to have grown unpleasantly cold, and spilled the remainder in the sink behind them. “I’m sure. I have to go help my partner now.”

  “Of course.” Diane nodded, slinking towards the exit. “Don’t let me keep you.”

  Michelle grabbed two black sleeves off the table and slipped them over her forearms. “I’ll make sure the pie dish gets back to you.”

  Diane nodded and watched Michelle set to work without another word.

  ***

  “I don’t know what to do, Mo,” Diane sighed. “I really don’t.”

  At least after another icy encounter with Michelle, Diane had Kelly Ann’s massive clawfoot tub to slip into and warm herself back up. Forgoing her usual date with the sofa and Netflix, Diane spent that evening filling her senses with a calming lavender bubble bath. Setting the window ajar, waves of crisp night air swept in, and Diane closed her eyes and draped her arms on the tub, dropping her head back in relaxation. This was exactly what she needed: a hot bath, comforting bubbles, and a luxe bottle of chardonnay she found tucked away in the kitchen. With her neck cradled in a plush towel, and a couple of glasses of exquisite wine in her, Diane felt more relaxed than she had in a long time, especially since her best friend listened to her vent about Michelle for the last fifteen minutes—redacting, of course, the part where she enjoyed their fleeting moments of friendliness.

  “One minute, we’ve made progress,” Diane continued, flicking the bubbles with her fingers, “the next, her walls are up again, and she’s cold as ice. I don’t get it.”

  “You don’t have to get anything. It’s not your problem to figure her out, babe,” Maureen said over speakerphone. “Why does it bother you if she likes you or not anyway? I’ve never known you to seek people’s approval.”

  “I don’t need people’s approval,” Diane grumbled.

  “Just this one particular person?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  Opening her eyes, Diane grabbed the wine glass off the tub tray and took an indulgent gulp. This conversation wasn’t how she wanted to spend time catching up with Maureen, but Diane couldn’t help herself, steering the topic towards Michelle and the aggravation she caused. Diane sighed.

  “Is she attractive?” Maureen asked.

  Diane chuckled. “What does that have to do with anything?”

  “I don’t know,” Maureen mumbled. “If there was someone I found nice to look at, I would probably want their approval in some way or another.”

  “No,” Diane said, her voice growing stern and sharp. She finished off the wine. “That’s not what this is about.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes.”

  “You made her pie.”

  “I make plenty of pies,” Diane laughed. “For plenty of people.”

  “Mhmm.”

  “She must be in her thirties.”

  “So?”

  “Maureen.”

  “What?”

  “You’re absurd.”

  “You’re beautiful. Smart. Kind,” Maureen said. “And you’re in good shape. She’d enjoy looking at you, too, if that’s what you’re concerned about.”

  “I am most definitely not concerned about that, thank you very much,” Diane said, her cheeks heating at the compliment. “Besides, me being in good shape could be a matter of debate. But again, it’s not about that.”

  “All right,” Maureen laughed. “It’s not about that.”

  Diane brushed her fingers through the bubbles and glanced at her body beneath the water. She made time to walk. She was toned, but also had stretch marks on her breasts, some on her thighs, a little jiggle in her stomach, and extra wiggle in her arms. There were lines and definitive crow’s feet on her face where there weren’t before. Diane’s body wasn’t what it was twenty or thirty years ago, but that was exactly the point. Her body was aging, and she was proud of it. She lived a full life; Diane had things to accomplish, books to write, and she didn’t have time to waste caring about what others thought of her body—especially not Michelle, of all people.

  “How’s everything with the new restaurant?” Diane injected quickly. “Going smoothly?”

  “It’s good,” Maureen sighed. “Though, Kelly Ann’s a little bit more . . . picky than I expected.”

  Diane snorted. “You can’t be serious.”

  “What?”

  “You didn’t expect Kelly Ann Frost, Queen of Perfection, to be so picky?” Diane said. “Do you know our friend at all?”

  Maureen huffed. “Okay, perhaps, I was expecting some leniency between friends.”

  “But . . .”

  “But, I’m sorry, Kelly is a fucking control freak.”

  Diane laughed heartedly. “Yes. Yes, she is. But we love her, dearly.”

  “We do,” Maureen said, a lightheartedness softening her tone. “Truthfully though, she’s a brilliant business owner who simply wants her place to shine. She wants a unique style, and she deserves one. I’ll make it work.”

  Diane swirled her fingers across the top of the water. “I have complete faith in you, and I know Kelly Ann does too.”

  “Speaking of, how goes it at her house?” Maureen asked. “It’s right on the lake, isn’t it? I imagine it’s gorgeous.”

  “It’s incredible,” Diane said, collecting a deep breath and releasing it. “Relaxing. Quiet. The lake gives me an excuse not to write when I should be.”

  For the next twenty minutes, their conversation filled with moments of laughter and encouragement, mundane details of their day, and discussing new binge-worthy shows they discovered on Hulu. They touched on Diane’s book, her astonishing progress with it, and the work still required. Though a substantial distance apart, Diane felt like her best friend was right there next to her. She didn’t realize how much she needed her friend, to hear her voice a
nd laughter. Maureen always had a knack for brightening her mood.

  “What do you think about coming here?” Diane asked, wrapping a towel around herself after she climbed out of the tub.

  “To Vermont?” Maureen asked.

  “Yes. Next weekend. I know it’s short notice, but with the holiday, maybe you could make time?”

  “I could use a little weekend getaway,” Maureen said. “Kevin’s heading to Miami on business. I’m on my own, anyway.”

  “And you miss your best friend like crazy,” Diane added.

  Maureen laughed. “And I do miss my best friend like crazy.”

  “So?” Diane set one foot on the toilet lid, working moisturizer into her leg. “What do you think?”

  “I can work something out,” Maureen said. “I’ll search flights tomorrow.”

  “Perfect,” Diane said. After spreading lotion on her other leg, she slipped into her favorite cotton pajamas, and took the call off speaker. She pressed the phone to her ear and padded quietly towards the master bedroom. “After all the death stares I’ll be getting from Michelle tomorrow evening, I’ll be in dire need of a friendly face around here.”

  “Oh stop,” Maureen said, adding a chuckle. “You’re being overly critical. This woman can’t be as bad as you think she is.”

  “You didn’t witness the disapproving look she handed me before I left today.”

  “You’re right. I didn’t.”

  With the lamp from the bedside table offering a relaxing glow beside her, Diane collected her reading glasses and her current novel she was into, and crawled into bed. The cool sheets felt divine against her hot skin, and she cozied in.

  “Although,” Diane said, releasing a submissive sigh, “maybe I was too aggressive in my pie approach. Not everyone takes to random acts of kindness. It could be I made her uncomfortable.”

  “That’s a possibility,” Maureen said, her voice soft and agreeable. “Maybe she’s not a people person. But perhaps with the right food and drink in her tomorrow, surrounded by people she knows well, maybe crabby neighbor girl will surprise you.”

  “I agree. Perhaps, that’s it. And at the party, she will invariably come around,” Diane said, cracking open her book with a shrug. “But, honestly Maureen, after the cold look I witnessed today, I’m certainly not holding my breath waiting for a warm front.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Finding Autumn and Sawyer’s home in Burlington wasn’t the problem, it was parking. Sawyer convinced Diane it was going to be a small gathering, but the ample cars lining their tight suburban neighborhood showed differently. Finally securing a spot for her Mustang, Diane strolled down the sidewalk, enjoying the row of small homes, manicured lawns, and the pleasant whiz of bicycles, as cyclists and families sped by. Even after Maureen’s pep talk last night, she contemplated not showing. But Sawyer was kind enough to invite her, and the last thing Diane wanted was to disappoint someone who’d been so kind and welcoming since she’d arrived.

  Walking past the line of flowering hostas to the split-level house, Diane adjusted the bottle of white wine in her hand. Though instructed not to bring anything, Diane’s upbringing wouldn’t allow her to arrive emptyhanded. Stomach fluttering with nerves, Diane rang the doorbell, checking her loose bun and outfit as she waited. The pink and lime, paisley dress was summery and sleeveless, stopping just above her knees. It was a tad formal for a backyard barbeque, but she wanted to make a good impression. And hopefully, the pair of casual sandals on her feet, and the perky pink pedicure she gave herself earlier, balanced everything out.

  A moment later, the door opened, and a smile both warm and inviting, greeted her.

  “Hi,” the woman said. She was short and curvy, fashioning bold, red-framed glasses and curls of thick brown hair. Her fair skin was freckled by the sun. “You must be Diane. I’m Autumn, Sawyer’s better half.”

  “Hi, Autumn. Thank you for having me.” Diane smiled and stepped inside the small entryway and looked around, the house was loud and full of guests. She held up the wine. “Sawyer said not to bring anything, but I couldn’t resist.”

  “That’s very kind of you,” Autumn said.

  “It’s kind of you to have me tonight.”

  “Of course, make yourself at home,” Autumn said. She took the wine from Diane and lead her through the kitchen. “Sawyer’s manning the grill. If you want to hop on the deck and grab a drink. Food should be ready shortly.”

  Slipping out the back door, Diane stepped onto the raised deck, and gazed up at the assortment of glowing lanterns strung above the party. The fenced-in yard was beautiful. Lively, yet intimate. There were clusters of people—a blend of diverse faces and ages and colors—chatting and laughing, having beers and playing Frisbee. Music floated in the background. The easy going energy was palpable. She could tell, simply by standing there, quietly observing, how close knit everyone was. Diane smiled and took a deep breath—filled with scents of hot charcoal and sizzling food.

  “Hey!” Sawyer said. “You made it.”

  Diane turned and met eyes with Sawyer, metal spatula in his hand, and a bright smile on his face. “I did,” she said. “Your home is lovely.”

  “Thank you.”

  Diane caught a glimpse of his faded Phish shirt and cargo shorts before he wrapped her in a one-armed hug. “It seems I have severely overdressed for the occasion,” she laughed, blushing slightly.

  “No way,” Sawyer said, turning his attention to the grill. “You look awesome.”

  “Thank you,” Diane said. She smiled at the younger gentleman, with deep brown skin and a ponytail of beautiful, long, black locs, sipping his beer quietly next to them. The man’s kind brown eyes ping-ponged between them.

  Sawyer rested his hand on the man’s shoulder. “Diane this is Darren, my best man,” he said. “Darren, this is Diane. A friend I made a few weeks ago up in the islands.”

  “It’s nice to meet you,” Darren said, his voice low and sweet. He stepped closer and shook her hand.

  “Likewise,” she said.

  “You teach creative writing, right?” Sawyer asked over his shoulder, flipping the hamburgers. “Back in Florida.”

  Diane nodded. “I do.”

  “Darren here is a writing celebrity among the group,” Sawyer said, nudging Darren with his elbow. “He’s a published poet.”

  Diane raised her brows at Darren. “Oh really?” she said. “That’s fantastic. Where can I find your work?”

  “Mostly small press.” Darren took a swig of beer. “Though I was published in the New Yorker last spring,” he said. “A narrative piece entitled ‘The Growing Sons.’”

  “Oh my God,” Diane said, her eyes popping open with excitement. “Yes.”

  Darren blinked. “You read it?”

  “I loved it. You’re brilliant,” Diane said, placing her hand affectionately on his arm. “Your steampunk imagery and political symbolism were unforgettable. Absolutely captivating.”

  Darren pushed up his wide-framed glasses. “That’s very kind of you to say,” he said. “I appreciate that. What about yourself? What do you write? Are you published? Hoping to publish? Don’t want to talk about publishing because it stirs up too much artistic rage?” he laughed.

  “I write fiction,” Diane laughed with him, and eyed Sawyer as he quietly slipped to the side and poured a red plastic cup full of golden ale from a keg. He handed it to her with a wink. Diane took a sip, savoring the nutty tones. “And I’m hoping to publish. That’s why I’m in Vermont, actually. Using the islands as my personal writing residency.”

  Darren nodded. “It’s certainly a good location for it,” he said. “Is this your first novel?”

  “Do I have to answer that?” Diane bit her lip and cringed, adding a soft chuckle.

  Darren’s eyes softened. “Why do you say that?”

  Over thirty years ago, from the first moment Diane walked onto the Clemson campus, she knew which direction her life would go. She had a script, a sensible, clear
cut plan involving a solid education, a steady career, and a stable homelife like her parents provided. Diane accomplished everything, made her family proud, and fulfilled her own rigorous expectations. And, as Nora never exhausted herself of mentioning, Diane had it all—money, a wife, a career—what else could she possibly want?

  Diane’s life went accordingly, just as she intended, except her plans left her unfulfilled and restless as the years blurred by and an emptiness followed. It was only when her life started to splinter that Diane felt the spark of something real. Her novel filled with pages. Her passion ignited. Starting her life over at fifty was far from desirable—overwhelming, in fact—but as it was turning out, going off-script sometimes had its perks.

  She only hoped her dreams didn’t have an expiration date.

  “I’m a late bloomer,” Diane admitted, staring into her beer. “It’s probably impractical trying to change careers, especially into a creative one, so late in my life.”

  “It’s never too late for anything,” Darren said with an encouraging smile.

  “Perhaps not,” Diane said. “But I am self-conscious putting my work out now.”

  “Don’t be.” Darren raised his drink and clinked their cups together. “Be proud. Finding the courage to write and be creatively vulnerable, at any point in your life, is always something to be celebrated.”

  ***

  As the night continued, Diane couldn’t picture herself being in any other place. The sun fell. The lanterns brightened. Music played on and cradled the atmosphere in cheerful vocals and funky beats, and Diane felt at ease. Happy. Welcomed. And most importantly, herself. Unlike all those gatherings she attended in Gulfport, the ones where she had to pass off her grimace as a smile, this one was authentic and real. Over the next several hours, Diane met and chatted with Sawyer’s close friends and family. She tried a few rounds of cornhole (and failed miserably). She laughed harder and deeper than she had in ages—something she was desperately, and soulfully, in need of.

  And to top it off, she made a new writing friend. Darren and Diane spent a good portion of the evening entangled in literary discourse, discussing their favorite books and authors. Sure, Diane had a few close colleagues with whom she enjoyed similar discussions, but it was always laced with an underlying and petty competitiveness. Darren was different. He was intelligent and thought-provoking, and they made a genuine connection, leading to an exchange of contact info and promises to workshop their current projects together soon.