Page 48 of The Impossible Princess
I’m in painting clothes. A Navy t-shirt, a pair of ratty football shorts, and paint-splattered deck shoes. Clara is wearing all the proper lengths, but it’s much tidier.
“I’ve never seen you in shorts.”
“Shorts are an abomination, but they have their place.”
“That is a very specific opinion.”
“And stop looking at my legs.”
I grin. “I’m famous for looking at your legs, Clara.”
Her eyes crinkle in laughter, and I lead her through the cottage, past the box of produce my mother left on the counter. She snags a handful of raspberries and pops one into her mouth, following me out the back door.
I was worried that we would never be able to get back to our friendship when I kissed her, but the first hurdle has been taken. It can’t get more awkward than it was going to be when we first saw one another. But we’re laughing together, and it feels like a return to normal, albeit a normal that includes wanting to taste raspberries on her lips.
I clear my throat and drop into lieutenant commander mode, giving her a few pointers on how to pour out the paint and load the brush. “I’ll do the window casements and you can do the stone,” I explain.
She cranes her neck and squints at the wall. “Unfair. There’s a lot more of the stone,” she counters.
“Edging is for experts.”
She laughs at that, and within a few minutes, we’re working side by side. She is daubing the white paint in broad strokes, freshening up the dingy look of the old wash while I trim the windows in black.
I talk easily, smoothing over any lingering unease she might feel with pedestrian observations. The difficulties of using the power washer, the success of a fishing trip on the lake, the work aboard ship.
“Did you find any more lost rooms?”
“Thankfully, no, but I’m going over the engineering plans with a fine-toothed comb. Someone has to know that ship inside and out.”
“Your captain must be pleased.”
“Not that you’d know it. I don’t know how a man can be so good at seafaring and so bad at people.”
We round the corner of the cottage, the view of the lake spreading before us, a lonely craft bobbing in the distance, and I tug my shirt up to wipe the sweat away from my face, ignoring the buzz my phone is making in my pocket. That will be my mother with a litany of questions.
“And what have you been up to?” I ask, bumping her elbow when it looks like she’s frozen. She jerks her head back to the wall and I turn, swiping neatly down a line of the woodwork.
“Oh…Oh, this and that. A charity performance ofTales of the Sonderlands, an award ceremony for my brother’s architectural preservation scheme, and I went to this care home.”
The words seem to tumble from her lips, tripping over themselves, and she becomes absorbed in recounting her visit. “The admin said there’s a model town in Vorburg—fenced so no one can wander off—just for memory patients. They can shop in a grocery store and sit on a park bench and visit a pub. A little like ordinary life.”
She starts to talk about her godmother—about how her memory flags and how she could be one of the ladies on that ward, so easily.
“I prepared myself for unending tragedy when she started slipping. I thought that I would be sad all the time, but if I meet her on whatever ground she’s standing on, we still laugh.”
She stops her recitation, and her mouth bunches on one side. She blinks rapidly and I see the tears threatening to fall. I set my brush down, and she walks into my arms. I rest my cheek on the top of her hair, and the soft breeze blowing in from the lake wraps around us.
“This is a friendly hug,” I say after a long time. “You’re not allowed to grope me.”
She gives a watery laugh, rubbing the palm of her hand across her cheek, and steps back, her heel catching the can. It tumbles over, sending the lid flipping into the air, and splashing white paint down the both of us. I right the pail quickly but there is a long river of paint oozing into the soil.
“It’s eco paint,” I say, “We can cover it with dirt.” When we’re finished, swaths of chalk-white paint are smeared up and down our arms and legs. Dirt is caked into our hands and knees. Her pristine palace clothes are wrecked, and I try to imagine her getting into her car like that. “Do you know how to swim?”
“Of course,” she answers.
“Do you have any electronics or valuables on your person?” I ask, slipping my phone from my pocket and shucking my shoes from my feet.
Her brows lower and her answer is drawn out in confusion. “No.”
