CHAPTER THIRTEEN

The Gentle Earth Eatery had been a fixture in the village as long as Tillie could remember. A gigantic geranium bloomed in the plate glass window, so huge it looked like it grew up through the floor, but it wasn't dusty or shedding. Someone took good care of it so it bloomed red and pink all year.

A bell rang over the door as she pulled it open, and the fragrance slammed her hard—cinnamon tea, baking bread, herbs, and spices. She halted so quickly that Liam bumped into her, his hands falling on her shoulders.

"Ah, this is the real thing, ain't it?"

"Yep." She inhaled deeply. "I feel like the scent alone could heal me."

The White girl behind the counter wore dreadlocks beneath a yellow-and-pink bandanna. Her nose was pierced between the nostrils, like a bull. "Hey, y'all, welcome. You can sit anywhere."

They slid into a booth by the window, and she brought menus over. Her arms were wound with flower-and-plant watercolor tattoos, and Tillie imagined her as the summer version of Gaia. "Special today is avocado and sprouts on sunflower bread with carrot-coconut soup for eight dollars. I'll give you some time to look at the menu."

"Mm, sunflower bread," Tillie said. "Bring us some iced tea, please."

Liam smiled, raising a brow.

"Trust me."

She headed for the kitchen.

"The sunflower bread is from my mother's recipe," she said quietly. "It was one of her best breads, and they begged for it."

"I was already set on the special, but now I'm really in, unless there's something better I should try."

She ran her eyes down the menu, thinking of her favorites over the years—the apple pancakes, the grilled "cheez," the seitan bacon. "My mother always liked a bean burger with guacamole, but I'm with you on the soup and sandwich."

The server returned with two tall glasses of iced tea. It was a deep reddish-brown color, even with the ice. "Ready to order?"

"I'm going with the special," Liam said.

"Cool." She smiled at him. "Are you Australian?"

"Close. Kiwi."

"Oh yeah? Whereabouts? My friend and I are going there next summer."

"You'll love it. Hiking?"

"Some. Camping. I want to sleep on the beach at Stewart Island. Supposed to be able to see the stars like nowhere else."

"Brilliant." He gestured toward Tillie. "What do you want, Tillie?"

She smiled. Charm surrounded him like an iridescent aura. She'd been slammed by it herself. "Same," she said. "Thank you."

"Of course." She smiled at them, but more at Liam, and clapped the menus together.

"Like a bee to nectar," Tillie drawled.

He gave her a half smile, acknowledging but not expanding.

She narrowed her eyes. "That happens to you all the time, doesn't it?"

"Sometimes. Does it bother you?"

"No," she answered, which was kind of a mistruth. "Well, I mean, I did it, too."

"The difference," he said quietly, holding her gaze and reaching for her hand, "is that I did it to you first."

"Oh." Light skated over the right side of him, illuminating the cheekbone, the straight nose, the edges of his lashes, the side of his throat. She itched to draw him, right now, in this moment. "Don't move." She pawed through her bag and came up with a Micron pen. Not her favorite, but it would do. She also brought out an Altoids tin of watercolors and a water-filled brush.

Luckily, the restaurant hadn't yet done away with paper place mats, so she flipped hers over to the white side and started to draw. Again, it was a way to channel the sexual energy building in her body, as well as a way to capture his likeness for her future self. There was something so grounding about really looking at a thing, without judgment pro or con.

"When did you start drawing?" he asked, watching.

"I don't remember," she said. "As long as I've been alive, I've been drawing."

"Cool."

His head was quite oval, the hair thick but a fine texture, all the colors of wheat. The brow was high, and maybe one day he'd lose that beautiful hair, but who would care? His eyes were not large, but the color—so bright and blue—made them more powerful. She studied the shapes, paused, studied the light, the angle of his eyebrows. His nose was Roman straight, his mouth—

Her skin whispered. Maybe she would have to skim over his mouth, giving the shape of upper lip, the swell of the lower one, without dwelling too much.

"So fast," he said.

"Lots of practice." She added a few defining details, the edge of his collar, an earlobe, and opened the watercolor box. "You can move now."

"That's a clever little thing."

"Yeah, I always carry it. Just in case." She plucked off the lid of the water brush and squeezed a few drops into each of the hard colors. While they soaked in, she picked up her tea and pointed to his. "You should taste that."

"Not a fan of iced tea, love. That's an American thing. We all think you're mad."

"Try it."

He picked up the glass and took a small sip, and his face changed. She drank deeply. The tea was the source of the cinnamon smell. It was orangey and very spicy and wildly refreshing. "They make it in-house."

"I stand corrected. I like it. A lot."

"You should always try the house specialties," she said, and dipped her brush. "I'm sure you've learned that over the years."

"Not really. I'm picky."

She laughed. "Really?"

He shrugged. "Yeah."

With easy swaths, she added color to the sketch, painting shadow on one side, highlights on the other, a little quinacridone magenta for his mouth, cerulean blue for his eyes.

"Oh my God," the server said, approaching the table with plates of food. "That's so good!"

Tillie smiled and moved the drawing aside to make room for the plates. The soup was steaming, the bread stuffed with crisp sprouts and perfect avocado. When her hands were free, Tillie gave the server the little watercolor. "It's yours."

"No way!" She gazed at it. "Will you sign it?"

"Sure." Tillie scrawled her painterly name with a cat face up the side.

And paused. The cat had been part of her signature for years, and now she couldn't remember why.

Shaking her head, she gave it back to the server.

"And you?" the girl asked Liam. "Will you sign it, too?"

"Nah," he said with a grin. "It's her work, not mine."

She was disappointed but so happy to have the sketch that she hugged it to her chest. "Thank you! Enjoy your meal!"

For a few minutes, they dug into the food. Quiet Indian ragas played on the overhead speakers. In the kitchen, the server and a male cook talked, but their words were an indistinguishable roll of sound. Tillie relished the flavors of the sandwich, thinking of her mother and the many, many times they'd come here together. It occurred to her that this would likely be the last time she'd ever visit. The thought gave her a sharp sense of loss.

It stung enough that she set down her sandwich and took a big gulp of tea, trying to cool the threatening tears. To distract herself, she asked, "What kind of meditation do you lead?"

"Pretty classic mindful meditation. Buddhist roots. Do you practice?"

"No. I mean, sometimes when I go to yoga or something, but not regularly." The pinch in her midchest eased. "Did you grow up with it?"

"Nah. I had a bit of a rocky period and landed in India in my twenties." He wiped his fingers on a napkin. "To be honest, it wasn't pretty. Strung out, exhausted, brokenhearted—all of it. I visited Varanasi and the Ganges." He pronounced it Ganga . "It changed things."

She imagined him, grimy and weary, sitting on the banks of the famous river. "The Mother River, right? Isn't that what they call it?"

"Right. It wasn't the river so much as the people. Like all these people believe in something so much that they sometimes walk hundreds of miles on bare feet. They make sacrifices to honor their pilgrimage." He held her gaze, and she felt the squishy discomfort of a nonspiritual person, afraid he would—what? Proselytize?

Instead, he said with a half smile, "It was humbling, and I realized I'd been a spoiled little shit."

It made her laugh. "That moment of growing up."

"Yeah. So I started wandering with a purpose, just to explore what I thought about. I mean, there are a lot of sacred sites all over the country, so I made my way to some of them—the Bodhi Tree and the spring of the Ganges. I read a ton. I spent some time in a monastery, learning to meditate, and since women had been a problem for me, I was celibate for two years."

"What does that mean? That women were a problem?"

A twitch of his shoulders. "I was given to falling in and out of love a little too much."

Tillie's body reacted to this, that it was easy for him to fall in love—and out. He wasn't quite meeting her eyes. An irritable adult in her mind argued, For God's sake, it's not like it's going to be anything—he lives on the other side of the world.

She picked up her sandwich. "So then what?"

"I went back home and made things right with my family and started trying to figure out where I fit. One of my mentors nudged me toward this work, teaching, and it's been good."

"Hmm." She realized she was enjoying the pleasure of the sandwich and the tea and the sight of his face across the table in equal parts. Something tense let go, but she couldn't really think of what to say to all that earnestness.

"It makes you uncomfortable," he said.

"Maybe." She shook her head, wiped avocado from her fingers. "Religion, spirituality, all of it feels a little ... silly, I guess."

"And yet you paint fairies and magical beings."

She laughed. "So I do."

His slow smile was everything.

"Do you have time this afternoon for me to sketch you?" she asked.

He held her gaze. "I do."

"Let's get back to the city, then."