Page 34 of Grown-Up Second Chance

“Why?” I moved to the rail to get out of the way of tourists, but kept distance between us.

“Because … well … I guess because I want to know more about what makes you tick.”

“And you figure it’s a fair trade if I learn more about you,” I said.

“Something like that.”

I considered the internal turmoil of the earth reflected on the surface below me.

“As far as I’m concerned,” I said slowly. “The past can stay in the past. After these few weeks, we’ll rarely, if ever, run into each other. No need for deep confessions.”

He nodded.

“So let’s just have some fun. We’ll go to the park together a few times if you want, take some walks like we used to do, then go our separate ways. Okay?”

He fisted, then flexed his hands, a gesture I remembered from when we were kids, and he was trying to make a decision.

Closing the short distance between us, he said, “Sounds like a plan for now.”

“For now?”

“You never know what the universe has in store.”

Oh, I had a good idea. The universe was a sneaky woman with nothing good in store for anyone.

I shrugged. Joe had always believed there was something special and new around the corner. It appeared even his wife’s death hadn’t changed that viewpoint.

My experience had been different, but there was nothing to stop us from having some fun. Maybe being with Joe again would resurrect some of the things I’d felt as a kid, like hope for the future.

Chapter Eleven

The dining room at the Old Faithful Inn reminded me of the one at the Ahwahnee in Yosemite. A big stone fireplace dominated one end, and immense beams loomed overhead. Because we were early, we were lucky enough to get a table by the window where we could keep an eye out to see if the geyser erupted again. The sky was still light enough to make the entire geyser area visible.

I went for the salmon, Liz the quail, while both Joe and Kathleen chose the buffet. Joe came back with bison medallions plus an assortment of vegetables and mashed potatoes. Kathleen went for the meatloaf and mashed potatoes, along with a token serving of green beans.

My ranching sister may have believed in meat and potatoes, but our mother’s reminders to eat our vegetables obviously took.

“What kind of art do you do?” Joe asked Liz midway through the meal.

“Oh, this and that.”

“I like to browse the galleries in Butte,” he said. “Has your work been shown in any of those?”

“No,” Liz dissected her quail with her knife and fork. “I have representation in New York,” she said. “My work is mainly displayed there and in their partner galleries in London and Paris.”

My fork clunked on the table as I stared at my sister.

“I had no idea you were that good,” I said. “I thought it was something you dabbled in.”

“Oh, no. Not dabbling.” Liz continued to work the bird.

“But don’t try to get any more out of her than that,” Kathleen said. “I’ve been working at her for years, and all I get is silence. And I’ve never understood it. I mean it’s not like I haven’t seen every naked and gross thing there is to see on this planet. Hard not to while you’re ranching.”

“Huh,” I said. “So what’s up?”

Liz looked up, her green eyes sharp. “I’m not ashamed of them. They’re private, that’s all.”

“Private paintings that you share with strangers in New York, London, and Paris,” I replied.

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