Page 27 of Intermission
Maybe.
“I don’t want to be responsible for a dog’s sadness. How about this. Since you won’t let Eliza and me come pick you up, you have to let me provide the picnic.”
“Deal.”
“Then it’s a date.” Noah smiles. “Well, sort of a date.”
Sort of. I swallow. Technically, I’m not supposed to date any boy my parents have not met. Butsort of a datemeansnot entirely a date, doesn’t it?
It’s finally Sunday. Mom and Dad are having brunch with friends at the Parre Hills clubhouse and staying to watch some game on the big screen TVs in the bar area after. Football? Basketball? I have no idea. Also, I don’t really care. Normally, I would be basking in the wonder of an empty house, but not today. Today, I can’t sit still.
I’m pacing between the grandfather clock in the foyer and the cuckoo on the fireplace mantel in the family room, but the clocks’ hands are not moving fast enough. I grab my coat and gloves, call for Janey, and start up the hill, a full hour before I’m supposed to meet Noah.
He’s already there.
“Hey! You’re early.”
“So are you.” He grins. “Pastor Lewis wasn’t feeling too great today. It was a short sermon.” Noah cringes. “I guess I shouldn’t sound so happy about that.”
“I won’t tell if you don’t.”
“Deal.” Noah fills a mug from a thermos and hands it to me. “I hope you like hot tea. It’s either that or what Janey’s drinking.” He gestures to where my dog is lapping water from the creek.
“I’ll stick with the tea, thanks.”
“Wise choice.” Noah pours himself a mug and lifts it. Closing his eyes, he takes a deep breath. “This smells like the color of your hair.”
I laugh. “Color doesn’t have a smell.”
“Sure it does.” Noah reaches over, lifts a handful of my hair, and lets it fall. “Okay, maybe not. But if itdid, the color of your hair would smell like cinnamon.”
“Cinnamon.” The breeze pushes the tea’s spicy fragrance toward my face, and I inhale deeply. “Random Noah factoid,” I say, pretending to write in a notebook. “Dude likes cinnamon. Evidencedby a preference for Big Red gum, cinnamon hot tea, and the belief that the color brown has a smell.”
“Brown? No, not brown. Brown is boring. The color of your hair is much more cinnamon-y than brown.”
“Also,” I write in my pretend notebook again, “he creates new adjectives derived from the word, ‘cinnamon.’”
“That Noah guy sounds like a nutjob,” he says, grinning. “Okay, so... I brought subs. Turkey on wheat with white cheese, mayo, lettuce... and some other stuff for you. I didn’t think to ask you what you liked, so I figured turkey was safe. No tomatoes, though.” He smiles, as do I, because he remembered. “You can pick off any toppings you don’t like.”
“Perfect.”
“Not to be weird, but... do you mind if I, uh, bless the food before we dig in?”
“Go ahead.”
Noah bows his head. I follow suit.
“Thanks for a beautiful day and a beautiful girl to share it with, Lord. Please bless our time, this food, and those who prepared it for us. In Jesus’s name, Amen.”
“Amen,” I echo. It’s not the first time I’ve talked to God from this ledge. But itisthe first time I’ve done it with a friend.
Or whatever Noah is.
The creek’s thin flow dives from the ledge and into the little pond below, and the sun’s reflection dances across the surface ripples like the kicks of a chorus line. Squirrels chatter and scamper in search of nuts to fill their winter stores. A slight breeze stirs the scattered leaves.
I take a bite of my sandwich. Noah’s simple prayer was perfect for this setting.
“We sometimes say a prayer before dinner at home, but not like that.”
