Anthony awoke once in the night to a cacophony outside an open window. He lay there for a moment, confused. This wasn’t Fitzy’s uncle’s cottage; this wasn’t the four-poster bed. This wasn’t the quiet and isolation of Corn Neck Road. Then he remembered the artichoke hearts, and the banana bread pudding, and quite soon after that he remembered his own fractured heart, which he could feel opening and turning toward the light, like a heliotropic flower.
There was a throb of disco music from down the street. Outside the open window a drunken fight was playing itself out.
A girl: “You did too, Sully, you did fucking too!”
The answering voice (presumably Sully): “Come on, Mariah, why you gotta go and do that? Why you gotta do it every time . . .”
The voices faded; Sully and Mariah went on their un-merry way.
He thought, Is this really happening? Am I really here? He felt in the darkness for the body next to him. He thought, Joy. He turned on his side and fell into a sleep like he hadn’t experienced in months, since before Huxley Wilder called him to tell him about Anonymous Source.
Sometime after dawn there was a shifting on the mattress, a kiss on his forehead. He said, “Whaa?”
“Shhh,” said the voice of an angel. “Shhh, back to sleep.”
Hours later, he awoke again. He was alone. His limbs were heavy after so much sleep. He felt clearheaded and wonderful, as though his brain had been infused with some magical elixir.
In the kitchen, Pickles was sitting politely, wearing an inquisitive, slightly reserved expression. Anthony reached out a cautious hand. Pickles licked it. Anthony fought the urge to pull away, and Pickles stopped licking and lay on the floor near Anthony. She sighed, possibly with contentment.
There was a note on the counter, along with instructions on how to work the French press.
I’m at the shop. Get yourself out of here by noon. Take this note with you, or eat it. And make the bed if you don’t mind, Maggie’ll know something is up if it’s not made.
Anthony looked at the clock on the microwave: ten-thirty. He didn’t want to leave.
He let his eyes roam around the kitchen, taking in the cabinets with paint peeling in the corners, the dings in the cheap metal sink, the slightly tilted floor. If Anthony were still a writer, this would be a home he’d love to describe.
The cottage was not fancy, but it was tidy and well kept, he would have written, with a large window in the front room, out of which he could just see a slice of the cobalt sea.
He couldn’t really see a slice of the sea; he was employing poetic license. Was cobalt being generous? This was New England, after all. But Block Island’s water was very blue, in a non-New-England-like way.
His phone rang: his mother’s number showed on the screen. He’d call his mother back. Later, he’d call Cassie, again, ask to speak to Max (again). But just at that moment he didn’t want to talk to anyone. He was experiencing a sensation that had not visited him in so long that it took him some time to put a name to it.
Contentment.
He thought, Plot twist, and turned off his phone.