Page 64 of Two Couples

“What kind?”

“Peppermint.”

She shrugged and gestured toward the chairs on their front porch. I took the one farthest from the door and filled the mugs with tea. I placed them on the table between the chairs.

Jordan picked up her mug and stared at the surface of the liquid. Then she put it back on the table and went into the house, leaving the door open. Had my olive branch been snapped in two before I’d even taken a sip of tea?

A moment later she was back, holding her notebook. She sat down, opened it and made a few notes, then tucked it beside her hip on the chair.

“Do coyotes kill a lot of wildlife around here?” I asked.

“No more than you’d expect. They come closer to where people are living when they’re looking for water. Usually, we don’t see them much. I was surprised they were around after all that rain.” She took a sip of tea. “I love rabbits. There’s something so free about them. They run with so much joy. They’re so curious.”

“I love them too. And deer. Do you see many around your house?”

“Quite a lot.”

“It must be satisfying to see so much wildlife. All we get at our house are squirrels. Although I love them too. They’re adorable. They’ll look right at you, as if they want to communicate,” I said.

“They probably are communicating. They’re curious about us, but afraid at the same time.”

I nodded, wondering if she might also be referring to her own behavior. “What do you write in your notebook, if that’s not too personal to ask?”

“Poetry.”

“That’s really cool. Have you had any published?”

“A few.”

Searching for the right thing to say next, trying not to destabilize the conversation that was flowing better than I’d expected, I paused. I took a few sips of tea. “It seems like you write in it quite a lot.”

“I have to grab my ideas before they escape.” She giggled. “Like rabbits.”

I laughed softly. “What do you write about?”

“Wildlife, for one thing. I wrote a eulogy for the rabbits. But I write about everything I observe. There’s so much. I could be writing all the time. I write about how people behave, the weather, the lake. Really, everything.”

“That’s impressive. I’d love to read some of them, if you ever feel like sharing them.”

She said nothing.

“How long have you lived here?”

She put her mug on the table with a sharp thud, causing the spindly legs of the table to wobble. Tea splashed out of her mug, but she ignored it.

“Why are all of you so nosey? You can’t just be nice, you have to stick your faces in our business.”

“I didn’t think I was doing that. I was just interested in your life.”

“You don’t know a single thing about my life.”

“I know. That’s why I’m asking. I was upset about the rabbits, and I knew you were also. So I⁠—”

“Why are you so aggressive? Living in this house with her for the rest of my life wasn’t my long-term plan. Is that what you want to know?”

Aggressive? I couldn’t figure out what her issue was. To me, it felt like a typical question. But now I realized I’d forgotten her paranoid reaction to that question when they came to dinner. How had I not remembered that? Maybe because so much had happened since that dinner, just a day and a half ago. It felt like a week, or more. “I felt the same as you about the rabbits, which made me think we might be friends.”

She laughed. “Friends! That’s really something. You don’t know how I felt about the rabbits. You live in the suburbs—there’s nothing in your life that compares with mine. Don’t pretend we’re the same.”