Page 27 of Finding Mr. July

“Salmon is great.” I throw him a quick smile before continuing my exploration.

He has several large plants on the windowsills, meticulously cared for.

I can’t even keep a cactus alive, but he doesn’t need to know that.

I pick up a small frame with a photo of Jonathan and his dad laughing. His dad is in a uniform of some sort.

“What’s your dad’s name again?” I ask.

“Wayne.”

“Wayne.” I nod. “You look like him.”

“Weathered and balding?”

“Why, yes, I thought that’s what we agreed you see when you look in the mirror. Where’s this taken?”

“Dad’s retirement ceremony. He was a park ranger.”

“So that’s where you got your love for the outdoors.” I set the frame down. “Are you just going to sit over there and stare at me? It could make a girl self-conscious, you know.”

“Sorry, but I’m quite enjoying myself,” he says, staying seated. “I haven’t had guests in a long time.”

“By guests do you mean women callers?” I stop at the piano and rest my hand on the lid. “Will you play for me later?”

“Any guests,” he clarifies. “And yes, if you want me to.”

“Good.” I browse the prints on the final wall as I return to him, this time walking right up to where he’s sitting, in between his knees.

I rest my hands on his shoulders as his gaze roams my face.

“I love your house,” I say. “It’s very…” For a moment, I struggle to find the right word.

The space oozes comfort and style, but more than that, it’s lived in and cared for. “Calming maybe? Welcoming.”

He pulls me closer, his hands caressing my sides. “Thank you. Makes me wonder what you were expecting.”

“A month ago, I might have said a dark cave. Blinds drawn round the clock. A dartboard with the faces of people who have wronged you above your bed.”

He lets out a deep guffaw. “That’s very specific. Though, to be fair, there are probably still a few people at work who’d say the same.”

I shake my head and reach out to push back a wavy strand at his temple. “No, you’re different now. And not just with me.”

He captures my hand and brings it to his lips. The softness against my knuckles is mesmerizing. How the sensation expands up my arm. He hums a low note before he moves to get up. “I’d better put the food on the grill before it’s too late.”

I don’t need to ask what he means.

Reluctantly, I get out of his way to allow him passage to the fridge, from which he produces several foil-wrapped parcels. He sets them on a tray. “Hold on, let me get my laptop, and you can look through the photos from yesterday while I take care of this.”

Yesterday was the Samoyed photo shoot. The one I was banned from.

“Did everything go okay?” I call after him as he disappears into his office.

He returns with his laptop bag. “Oh yeah. Easy. I think you’ll like them. The guy’s name was Samuel, by the way. Samuel, not Sam. I got several reminders.”

“Because his dog is Sam.” I roll my eyes. “Way to make things confusing, guy.”

“Here you go.” Jonathan turns the screen my way and puts a folded paper next to it. “His form. I’ll be back in a few.”

“Great.” I tuck it into my bag so I won’t forget and then turn my attention to the screen.

It’s soon apparent that Jonathan has outdone himself with this photo shoot.

It rained most of the day yesterday, but luckily, they must have found a brief reprieve.

Against a backdrop of dark green pines and the still waters of a lake that breathes wisps of fog straight out of a fairy tale, Sam’s white coat stands out in stark contrast to the gray rocks at the water’s edge.

Samuel is in the water behind him, dressed in fisherman’s pants that go to his waist and are held up by suspenders, and nothing else.

The whole series of photos is remarkable.

The way the Samoyed’s attention moves between his owner and the water, Samuel’s muscles shifting as he adjusts the fishing pole—it’s a vignette of Pacific Northwest solitude.

A true tribute to man’s relationship with nature.

Which is good for me because now that Jude is for sure moving, I’ll soon be out a place to stay whether I get the new job or not. Now, more than ever, I need to win this thing!

I’m still staring at my favorite in the series when Jonathan returns, tray held aloft.

“I think that’s the best one,” he says. “You like?”

I close the laptop and watch as he opens the steaming foil packs with quick fingers to skirt the heat. “Remind me again why you don’t do this full-time?”

He looks up. “Cook?”

“Take pictures. You’re so good. The world is missing out.”

“The world?” A glint of amusement beneath that serious brow.

“It’s been years,” I say, careful not to step in it. “Surely there must be other opportunities out there by now. You don’t want to do web design, and this”—I tap the laptop—“is your fricking calling.”

Jonathan turns to get two plates out of a cabinet.

“Tell you a secret,” he says as he plates our food.

Salmon with slices of lemon, and skewers with tiny onions, mushrooms, and other veggies I can’t immediately identify.

He hands me a bottle of Viognier and two glasses.

“You take these. I thought we’d eat outside. The grill warms the deck.”

I follow him through the living room. “That’s the secret?”

“No.” He sets his cargo down on the small table and then gestures for me to sit before he pours the wine.

“The secret is that, before you came along and ‘forced’ this project on me, I hadn’t picked up my camera since everything went to shit.

And I thought I never would. It was collecting dust in my office closet. ”

I could feign surprise or ask why, but I think I already know, so instead I say, “That’s a long time.”

“I told myself I didn’t miss it.”

“And now?”

He gestures to my plate. “Now we eat, and you have permission to gloat about being the one who reminded me that I’m still a photographer at heart.”

“Oh, come on. I’m not going to gloat.” I pick up my fork and dig into salmon so tender and flaky I already know it will melt in my mouth. “At least not much. Can’t help that I’m good at not taking no for an answer.”

“Yes, you are very determined.” Beneath the table, his foot comes to rest against mine.

“I doubt you mind.” I extend my leg so my bare calf meets the smooth fabric of his jeans.

“Never said I do.”

His burning gaze challenges me, a continuation of our verbal sparring that makes me forget how to eat. The forkful that was on its way to my mouth halts in the air and then lowers back to my plate.

“You need to stop looking at me like that,” I mumble, averting my gaze. “Or you will have cooked for nothing.”

“What way?” He lifts his glass, feigning innocence.

“Like I’m the meal.”

“Maybe I can’t help it.”

As if he’s a magnet, my attention snaps back to his face.

His pupils are dilated, his lips slightly parted.

For a long moment, the unspoken promise of more to come hovers between us, until he picks up his cutlery again and uses them to point to my plate.

“But fair enough, you should eat. Omega-3 is good for you.”

“So thoughtful.” I take a big bite of salmon and bell peppers to settle my smile.

The rest of the meal we chat about his first piano performance (he was eight and the sheet music fell off the stand), my first slalom competition (I was seven and nerves made me forget to turn), and family in general.

“Wayne sounds like a great dad,” I say after Jonathan has regaled me with stories of their adventures together. After Wayne retired and before his eyes got bad, he’d sometimes accompany Jonathan on assignments.

“He is.” Jonathan finishes the wine in his glass. The sun has set, but the light from inside illuminates his earnest aspect when he asks, “Is it weird that I’d like him to meet you?”

It should be. I dated Chris for two years and never once met his parents. But haven’t I also entertained the idea of Jude and Jonathan getting along? Yes, it’s futile and whatnot. In a few months, none of us will be in the same place, but still… “Not that weird. I’d like to meet him, too.”

“Maybe we’ll make it happen.” He leans forward as he stands and gathers his plate and silverware. “Head inside?”

“Sure.” I follow his example. “I believe I was promised musical entertainment.”

“No dessert?”

“I’m sure we can fit that in, too. Dinner was delicious, by the way. Thank you.”

He glances at me over his shoulder, a flash of delight brightening his face as if he’s not used to such compliments. “You’re welcome.”

While he tidies up in the kitchen, I kick off my heels and sit down on his comfortable couch. He moves differently here than at work. Nothing is hurried, yet every motion is fluid and intentional. Efficient. I scold myself again for having misjudged him in the beginning.

“Coffee?” he asks. “Or more wine?”

“Coffee, please.” I fully intend to stay on the sober side tonight. No more half-assed recollections. If he takes that maroon sweater off at some point, I’m going to memorize every swoop of muscle, every smattering of hair, and exactly what parts of him respond best to my touch.

“Um, maybe you should stop looking at me that way,” he says from the kitchen.

I grin. Stealing my words, is he? “Or what?”

He turns on the coffee maker. “Or I might be too busy hiking you over my shoulder and carrying you upstairs to play for you.”

My stomach clenches deliciously at this promise disguised as a threat. “Oh no,” I say. “I’d better be careful, then.”

He opens the fridge to get creamer, which he sets on the counter. “You’re still looking.”

I flip my hair with a coy tip of the head. “That’s me. Living on the edge.”

He laughs as he rounds the counter and walks past me. “Nice try.” Finally, he sits down on the piano bench and rolls his shoulders back. His eyes rest on me above the body of the beautiful instrument. “So, what do you want me to play? Do you have any favorites?”

I nestle deeper into the cushions. “I’d rather hear your favorites.”

There’s no hesitation before a tranquil chord rings out, followed by a complex trill at the high register of the piano.

I let the notes carry me as the music swells and dips.

His hands chase each other across the keys, one moment in a rhythmical flurry, another in soothing repose.

I don’t recognize the tune, so when the final rise and fall fades and Jonathan comes back to reality, I ask him the name of the song.

“It doesn’t have a name,” he says. “It’s just something I’ve been working on lately.”

I gape at him. “You made it up?”

He shrugs. “Sometimes I find it easier to express myself through music. It makes whatever goes on here”—he touches his temple—“more tangible.”

I get up and walk over to him. Press a key down so a low note gongs from inside the piano. “Give me an example.”

He plays a high key that corresponds to mine, glancing up at me with a smile.

“Like after I lost my job, I played a lot of stuff like…” He hammers down the keys in a few measures of a familiar classical tune.

“Really anything—I’m happy, I’m sad, I’m tired.

There are melodies for everything. I sit down, I play, and when I get up again, I’ve put it all out there. Does that make sense?”

“Each song is a piece of you,” I say, moving behind him to rest my hands on his shoulders. “What would a song about me sound like?” I ask, my thumbs idle on either side of his spine.

He leans into my touch. “You’re putting me on the spot?”

“Mm-hmm.”

He runs a hand through his hair before patting the narrow space on the bench next to him. “Come sit.”

I do, and I like that we’re pressed shoulder to shoulder, my arm, hip, and leg lighting up with awareness of him.

“A song about Holly,” he says in a low voice. He lets one finger drag across the fabric of my skirt from my knee to my hip almost absent-mindedly as he lifts his hands to the keys.

My breath snags on an intake.

The first chord is bright but with a rumbling, deep undertone. Jonathan looks at me as if waiting for a reaction. I hold his gaze as he moves into the next chord and the next. Then he hits his stride, and his eyelids fall shut.

This melody is contradicting and wholly different than the other song he played.

Pulsing rhythms drive a sometimes uplifting, sometimes contemplative tune that I feel from my toes to the top of my head.

Goose bumps break out on my arms, my pulse quickens, and when the song reaches its crescendo, my hand comes down in a tight grip on Jonathan’s thigh with no conscious intention.

His playing ends abruptly, and before I have a chance to say anything about it, he’s spun me up to stand in front of him, his knees framing my legs, his hands at my waist. He looks up at me, his chest rising and falling as if struggling with what comes next even though we both know what’s about to happen.

We knew it before he invited me over here tonight.

It’s time to finish what we started in that deserted office rec room.