Page 6 of The Singing Trees
She tried her best not to reward his absurdness with her own smile, but her lips apparently had a mind of their own, turning up just enough to urge him on. “A sculptor, huh?” Annalisa asked with a dipped chin. “Somehow I doubt that.”
He gave a smirk. “Nothing gets past you, does it? I’m Thomas.”
She wondered what color blue she might start with if she attempted to paint his eyes. “Good to meet you, Thomas. I’m going to get back to work now.”
He peeked at her sketch pad before she could flip it over. “You’re good. Are you a student in town? I’d love to see more of your work.”
“I bet you would.” She sounded much colder than she’d intended to as the nature of his intentions showed itself. “Thanks for the laugh. Now I gotta go.”
As if he hadn’t heard her, he asked, “What’s your name?”
She closed her pad and ran the pencil through the spiral binding. “I appreciate what you’re trying to do, but I’m not interested.” Sometimeshonesty saved agony. Dropping the pad into her purse, she collected her tote and stood. “Take care.”
He held out a hand to stop her. “What if we were meant to have met right now?”
She would have rolled her eyes if he hadn’t been so serious.
“I don’t know about you,” he continued, “but one day, hopefully sooner than later, I’m going to meet the love of my life. I want to remember that moment forever. What if that is us? Right here, right now. What if you’re walking away from your best chance at love?”
Annalisa looked down at him, seeing through his confidence a gentle sincerity. For a second, she thought he might actually be a good guy. But that thought didn’t last. She knew better than anyone how destructive men—and love—could be.
“I’ll take my chances,” she said, backing away.
The game seemed to end as his smile straightened into defeat. “Take care,” he said with honest disappointment.
When she finally broke eye contact and turned away, she smacked right into the wall, shoulder first, knocking the tote out of her hand.
He rushed her way to help. “You okay?” he asked, as he leaned down to retrieve her tote.
Her face flushed hot as she snatched it from him. “Yeah, I’m fine.”
“Please tell me your name,” he said, as if he now deserved a treat for helping her. “At least I could think about you if we never see each other again.”
Annalisa noticed his eyes had turned green. “My name’s Alice,” she lied.
“Alice,” he said. “I’ll be thinking about you, Alice.”
“Take care, Thomas.” She pivoted and raced out of the museum, refusing to allow herself to make the same mistakes her mother made.
Chapter 2
NONNA’SHOUSE
They reached the Linden River Bridge leading into Payton Mills just in time, a testament to how seriously even Nino took Nonna’s rules. She was not the kind of grandmother you messed with. Nino and Sara had spent the day shopping and eating—and probably fooling around in one of the more wooded parks.
The tall smokestacks of the redbrick textile mill defined the unimpressive skyline of the Mills. Constructed in 1827, the mill had been set on the river to make use of the running water as the main energy source. Even her earliest memories of visiting her grandmother had provided barely a glimpse of a thriving town. One didn’t have to listen long to find disgruntled mill workers talking about losing textile production to countries overseas.
In her neighborhood on the other side of town, trees hovered like giants over the tiny homes that had been housing mill employees like her father’s family and other working-class Mainers for more than a century. Fishermen and lobstermen who couldn’t afford to be closer to the coast formed part of the population too. To Annalisa, Payton Mills was a town whose inhabitants dreamed of taller buildings they’d seen only in the movies. Heck, half the people in her church had never even been to Portland, that long hour-and-a-half drive too daunting a journey. Portland was full of trouble, anyway, many of them thought, no one more so than her grandmother.
Annalisa said goodbye to Nino and Sara and stepped out into the night. It was barely seven and eerily quiet. With the exception of Friday nights during football season, when Payton Mills played their home games, the town rolled up the sidewalks with the falling sun.
She crossed their tiny dooryard, which Annalisa dutifully mowed each Saturday morning per Nonna’s command. Up the three steps to the front porch was Annalisa’s outdoor studio, complete with a chair, easel, and her trunk of paints. A set of wind chimes that she and her mother had made with antique spoons and silver bells hung from the center of the ceiling. It was a windless night, and the chimes were silent. Still, Annalisa could feel their power as she thought back to those countless hours on their side porch in Bangor, when the tinkling of the chimes had been the soundtrack to her time with her mother.
Finding strength from her renewed commitment to her dream, she dashed through the door, calling for her grandmother. Nonna was where she always was: the kitchen. Though the floors in most of their tiny home were in good shape, the linoleum in the kitchen was worn down and showed the scuff marks of Nonna’s black orthopedic shoes. The salty and herbal smells of a simmering chicken soup on the stove reminded Annalisa that she hadn’t eaten dinner yet.
“How’d it go?” Nonna asked, standing in front of the sink, where hot water steamed up behind her. Her entire English lexicon was drenched in her native tongue’s bounce.
Annalisa stood right behind her, towering over her. “Jackie says I’m good—she loved the one of me at the funeral—but that I haven’t found my voice yet.”
