Page 25 of Beneath the Poet's House

“Forget the salad. Do you know any restaurants around here?”

“I moved back less than two weeks ago, remember?” She looks out the window for a telltale building or landmark—not that she would remember anything from her sporadic ventures off Brown’s campus more than a decade ago. “I have no idea.”

The rain increases from a few splattering drops to a downpour.

“I’m getting off here,” Emmit says, jerking his chin at an upcoming exit and slowing. It’s cute, how worried he is. But she’s a little uneasy herself. The visibility is terrible, and the rain is not letting up. Halfway down the ramp, the visibility improves, and Saoirse relaxes slightly. Emmit takes a left.

“What town are we in?” Saoirse asks.

“No idea. Maybe Cranston?” Emmit’s knuckles loosen around the steering wheel. “It looks like we’re coming to a little stretch of civilization now.” He pulls into a small public lot next to a strip of shops and restaurants. “There’s a place right there,” he says, pointing. He reaches over, grabs her hand, and squeezes it, then gives a wistful glance over his shoulder. “I can’t believe I don’t have my damn umbrella.”

Hand tingling from his touch, mind reeling from this unexpected adventure she’s somehow found herself on, Saoirse shrugs. “It’ll be fine. We’ll make a run for it.”

Emmit chuckles, staring at the rain, which is coming down in sheets. “I like your optimism.” They grab their respective door handles simultaneously.

The rain has turned the late-October afternoon cold. Saoirse pulls her coat tighter around her as she runs for the restaurant. They’re drenched by the time they reach the overhang and both laughing hysterically. Together, rainwater dripping in their eyes, they inspect the menu on the glass-encased bulletin board by the door.

“This looks great,” Saoirse says.

“Ditto,” Emmit replies, “though I’m basing my acquiescence entirely on their wine selection. I’m not normally a big drinker, but this rain makes me want to warm my bones from the inside out.” He gives her a calculating look. “Are you a drinker?”

Saoirse hesitates. What to say to this?Who could be, watching their husband mix everything from scotch to IPAs with his Ambien and Adderall, intent on self-medicating his stress away.Or,I am, as long as I err on the side of extreme moderation, so as to not upset the delicate balance of my own prescriptions?

“Sort of,” she says, and Emmit cocks his head, his expression indicating this is something he will return to later. But then his eyes jump from her face to the bulletin board again, and his mouth curls into a grin.

Saoirse follows his gaze to a piece of paper tacked to the side of the dessert menu. At the sight of the words there, a cool sensation passesalong the back of her neck, as if a spider has skittered over the skin there. A spider ... or a fly.

She reads the words a second time, and then a third, and each time she does, the image in her brain grows sharper. Sharper, but no more comprehensible. It’s of Sarah Helen Whitman sitting in an alcove in the Athenæum, reading from a notebook to the man who has recently become her fiancé. Reading her poetry aloud to Edgar Allan Poe.

“What time is it?” Saoirse asks warily.

“Twenty of six.” Emmit’s eyes glint with the tiny drops of rainwater caught in his lashes. “I’m not going to say this is a sign.”

Saoirse scoffs.

“But, I mean, this is a sign, right? It’s got to be a sign.”

She shakes her head. “The rain is sign enough that we should eat here. Let’s go in.”

Emmit opens the door. Saoirse looks one final time at the piece of paper, willing the words to change or to disappear. They remain:

Open Mic Night: POETRY! PROSE! MUSIC!

Regale us with your creative endeavors!

Too shy? Regale us with someone else’s!

Every Sunday, 6 to 8 p.m.

Chapter 16

The entryway where Emmit helps her out of her coat is awash with low amber lighting. Saoirse shivers and resists the urge to wring out her hair. When she looks up, she finds Emmit is gazing at her with undisguised longing. He pulls her into an embrace, but steps back as quickly as he grabbed her, his hands coming to rest on her shoulders, where he rubs her up and down to warm her.

“Better?” he asks.

Saoirse nods, not trusting herself to speak.

“Good.” He smiles. Saoirse feels as if she could fall into that smile, but then he’s pushing open the door, one hand on her lower back, and she wants to pinch herself, or else imagine that the hand is Jonathan’s, anything to keep from falling under his spell. “Come on,” he says. “Let’s get inside where it’s really warm.”

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