Page 91 of Fated

I can picture her in Geneva, at one of the bookstore coffee shops where you can browse for hours, snug among rows and rows of books, a perfectly made coffee warm in your hands. She would love it.

Amy takes a long drink of the water and then wipes the back of her hand across her mouth. She has the gangly arms and legs of a teenager not fully grown into herself yet. She’s sharp-lined and narrow-boned, and even when she’s still you can see her mind moving a thousand miles a minute. She drops the cup to the counter and then runs her finger through a drop of condensation falling down the glass.

“He asked me to ask you if you wanted to go to dinner with him, because if you do, Junie said she’ll babysit Sean. Also, then he’ll have to let Sue know so that she can keep the restaurant open.” Amy looks up from the trail of condensation on her glass. “Well?”

“A date,” I say, thinking of Robert’s warning, thinking of Max.

“I don’t know. Do married people go on dates? I think Dad just wants some of Sue’s fried snapper.”

Or ...

I tamp the espresso grinds down and start the machine. It groans and hisses, and then frothy caramel-brown espresso falls in a thin stream into the shot glass.

I keep busy, tilting the metal pitcher of milk, letting it froth and steam until a soft foam rises. In the cup I add a shot of simple syrup made from raw sugar. It’s golden amber, its flavor sweet like wildflower honey. I add espresso and the steamed milk and make a foam clover on top. My mum would be proud.

I push the mug toward Amy. “Try it.”

She looks at the latte as if it’s a dead snapper, glassy-eyed, cold, and ready to be gutted.

“Go on.” I wave my hand.

Gingerly she lifts the cup and takes a cautious sip. When she does her eyes light up and she smiles. “What happened? How did you do that?”

I brush my hands together and say, “I know a few tricks.”

She snorts and then takes another drink. “I wonder,” she says, “if this is what coffee tastes like in New York.”

I shake my head. “No. This is what coffee tastes like in Geneva, Switzerland.”

She tilts her head. “How would you know? You’ve never been there. I bet this is New York coffee. I’m going to picture it.” She closes her eyes. “Me in Manhattan, drinking this coffee on the steps of the New York Public Library. Can you see it? The lion statues are on the stairs next to me. There are taxis rushing by. It’s fall. No, winter. I’ve never seen the snow. It’s falling, and some of the snowflakes fall on the pages of my book. I’m reading—mmmm, it’s...”—her eyelashes flutter—“a book of poetry. A new one I’ve never read. One we don’t have here. And—” Her eyes open then, and she shrugs. “I don’t know its name. But I’ll know it when I see it.”

She smiles and takes another sip of the latte. She peeks at me from above the rim of the mug, her eyes happy.

“I have a poem for you,” I tell her, leaning against the counter. Another gust of wind rushes through and the door rattles against the wall.

“You do?”

I nod. “I memorized one for you.”

Her eyes light up. “When?”

“When I was at a bookshop. I asked the bookseller what sort of poems you’d like.”

“Do you have the book?” She sits straight, her eyes hungry.

I shake my head and she deflates, her shoulders slumping.

“But I memorized it. I’ll tell you a poem every day until there aren’t any more.”

She thinks about this, her eyes flashing, her mind whirring. “How about I write them down?”

“All right.”

She tugs her backpack onto the bench next to her and unzips the bag. She pulls a notebook free, a pen, and then flips to an empty page. “Ready.”

I pull the poem to me. Hold it in my mind. Picture the words and the way they fly across the page.

I think about the words, the meaning that calls to me and makes me want to do things I’ve never dared do before.

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