Her Last Breath: A Kate Burkholder Novel

him.
    “And wine.” He wipes his hands on his jeans and turns his attention to me. “Where were we?” he asks.
    “I think I was in the process of putting my tongue down your throat.”
    He leans in to me and kisses me on the mouth. It’s just a peck, a soft brushing of his lips against mine, but it moves me, makes me want more.
    I laugh. “So are you going to show me around, or what?”
    “How much time do you have?” he murmurs.
    “I can’t stay,” I tell him. “A few hours.”
    “In that case, let’s go inside and get started.”
    *   *   *
    It’s odd that after being with Tomasetti I would dream of Mattie. Prior to the hit-and-run, I hadn’t thought of her in any meaningful way in years. Since, I haven’t been able to get her off my mind. She was a huge part of my formative years. She taught me many things, about myself, about boys, about the way life worked. Only now, as an adult, do I realize not all of the things I learned were good.
    If you were a teenager and living in Painters Mill, the Round Barn Creamery was the place to go in the summertime. The owners, a husband and wife team I always fancied as former hippies from the 1970s, boasted fifty-three flavors of ice cream, sherbet, and gelato and ran their business out of a historical German-style round barn that had once been a dairy operation. The real draw, however, was the patio in the rear. Nestled beneath the shade of a massive maple tree, the area was paved with flagstones and dozens of potted tropical plants. An old rococo fountain spurted water that trickled over river rock and made the most amazing sound. A smattering of antique ice-cream tables and chairs were scattered about. Best of all, the owners piped alternative rock through massive walnut speakers, which drew teens by the drove and guaranteed a full house all summer.
    My mamm and datt didn’t know about the music—or the boys—both of which would have ended my new favorite pastime. I made sure they never found out. As long as my chores were finished, they didn’t mind my going with Mattie for ice cream. We’d meet on the dirt road in front of my house and ride our bicycles into town. Friday afternoons at the Round Barn Creamery became part of our summer routine.
    When you’re fourteen years old and Amish, being away from the farm with your best friend was the epitome of independence. I drank in that newfound sense of freedom until I was drunk on it and giddy for more. Still, walking into an “English-owned” establishment—even a place as teenager friendly as the Round Barn Creamery—wasn’t easy. I was ever aware that because of the way I dressed, some people would stare as if I were some kind of oddity.
    One hot July afternoon, Mattie and I parked our bikes outside the shop. We’d been in such a hurry to get there and pedaled so fast, we arrived drenched with sweat. The bell on the front door jingled merrily when we walked inside. A wash of air-conditioned air sent gooseflesh down my arms as I made my way to the counter. I wanted to order my usual: a chocolate shake with a single dip of coffee ice cream, but we were both short on cash that day so we settled for small iced teas instead and carried them to our favorite table on the patio, where Kurt Cobain belted out a song about teen spirit.
    I was so embroiled in the music and this special time with my best friend, I didn’t notice the group that came in behind us. Two boys and two girls. English teenagers about the same age as Mattie and me. The boys wore cut off shorts with T-shirts depicting different rock bands. The girls were pretty. One wore blue jeans with a white tank top. The other wore shorts that displayed long, slender legs. I stole looks at them as they walked onto the patio, and I couldn’t help but wonder what it would be like to dress like that. To have jewelry and wear makeup and be surrounded by boys.
    “They’re fat cows.” Mattie whispered the words in Pennsylvania Dutch.
    I couldn’t help it; I laughed. That was one of the things I loved most about Mattie. Her unapologetic audacity. She was bold and brave and completely unstoppable.
    When the group received their ice cream orders—big sundaes stacked high with whipped cream and slivered almonds—they strolled onto the patio. I could tell by the way their eyes swept toward us that they were curious. I wondered if they were tourists, if they’d ever seen an Amish person before. I wondered what that would be like, too.
    “We