“Help me find a frame.”
They hung it beside the big window that afternoon.
Bradley held the frame while Dorothy judged the height. He adjusted it twice without complaint, and she laughed when he asked whether the original architect deserved lunch.
They ate on the porch.
There was enough food for two people, and neither apologized for the empty chairs.
Later, Bradley washed the dishes while Dorothy sat facing the water. Through the open window came the soft clink of plates, followed by his voice asking where the clean towels belonged.
“Second drawer,” she called.
He put everything away and came outside.
“Same time in two weeks?”
“I have plans that Saturday.”
“All right. Sunday?”
“Sunday would be lovely.”
He kissed her cheek and left before sunset.
Dorothy remained on the porch until the sky turned peach above the water. Then she went inside, locked her door, and placed the brass key in a small blue dish.
Beside the window, the child’s drawing caught the last light.
She made tea in the cup she had finally unpacked, carried it to her favorite chair, and opened a book.
When the ocean breeze lifted the curtain, she let it move.
