Eversea A Love Story

me a hard time about it later. But for now we grinned at each other stupidly. At least, I was grinning stupidly. Jazz would cluck like a hen if she could, such was the proud bearing of her shoulders and I told you so eyebrows.
    “And I’d like to commission three more, all slightly different of course. Do you have any other things I can put in the shop?”
    “She sure does,” said Jazz. And the next half hour consisted of us bringing stuff down from the attic and Jazz showcasing all my various projects ... from an old mirror framed with driftwood to sea glass-bejeweled photo frames ... like she was hosting a promo special. I looked on in bashful wonder.
    Finally, both Jazz’s mom and Brenda arrived and we all got comfortable on the porch to start the book discussion.
    “So, who thinks the parallel dimension theme is symbolic of the unattainability of the perfect man?” Jazz asked loudly. And basically, for me, it went downhill from there.
    Between the pointed observations from Mrs. Weaton and Jazz about the heroine having to learn to trust and suspend her disbelief, and the references by the oblivious members of the book club about how perfectly cast Jack Eversea was in the role, I decided to stay out of most of the discussion.
    Instead I opted to refill ice tea and offer snacks. It was the longest hour and a half ever.
    * * *
    At about six o’clock we were wrapping it up, and I felt my phone buzz. I waved goodbye to Liz and Faith who were catching a ride with Brenda and slunk into the kitchen for some privacy. A bubble of nervous tension lodged in my throat.
    Late Night Visitor: Do you ever watch sunsets?
    Me: Yes, we get those here, too. You missing California?
    I wondered if my text responses came over snarky, or amusing.
    Late Night Visitor: California, not especially. You, yes. I found a spot for a sunset—you want to come watch it with me?
    I put the phone down and was banging my head against the kitchen wall when Jazz came back in. She cocked her head at me. I pointed at my phone. She picked it up and looked at the text.
    “Late Night Visitor? Interesting ... Oh man, sunsets? Does he have a playbook?” She rolled her eyes. It would have seemed cheesy from anyone else but not from Jack for some reason.
    “Jazz, I’m in so much trouble. I really, really, like him. And he has to go back to Audrey.”
    I tried to explain Jack’s situation to her as best I could.
    “But just because they are photographed together, doesn’t mean they actually have to be together? Right?”
    “God, I hope not. But he hasn’t really said. Am I being totally played, Jazz?”
    “Look, Keri Ann. I don’t think so. I mean, I saw his face yesterday when you walked out, it didn’t look like it was easy for him. But what do I know? I don’t want to give you bad advice. Nana always said ‘love was taking a chance at life’... or was it ‘life was taking a chance at love’? Hmm, oh well. Or maybe it’s ‘go for it, you only live once.’”
    “Fat lot of good you are.” I thumped her arm.
    Nana always had a lot of wise nuggets and greeting card phrases tripping off her tongue. Most of the time we’d roll our eyes. Affectionately, of course. I probably should have paid more attention. I’d take a fortune cookie for help right now.
    “Look,” Jazz swung an arm around my shoulder, “I’ve been telling you this forever, but it bears repeating. You is kind. You is smart. You is important.”
    “Ha ha, Jazz. I‘m serious here.”
    “So am I, K. Listen, you are gorgeous, you’re funny, you’re talented. I know deep down you believe in yourself. The facts speak for themselves, and I’m not just talking about the chandelier you sold today. There is no reason you wouldn’t attract any man you wanted. I think you need to trust your gut.”
    A small kernel of quiet confidence deep inside made itself known as I heard, and really for the first time, started to believe the words, started to trust myself. And my gut said Jack had asked me to take a chance on him, and I should go for it.
    Jazz grabbed her backpack and pulled out a bunch of files and papers, then headed to my fridge and pulled out a bottle of white wine and a block of cheese.
    “What are you doing?” I asked.
    “Packing a romantic picnic.” She grabbed grapes, a box of crackers, and a knife. I handed her the bottle opener, and she stuffed it all in the bag.
    “Wow, thanks, I’d love to spend the evening with you, where shall we go?” I asked