The pen left thick, inky black swoops on the page as Abbie breathed in the warm desert night air at the outdoor cafe. It was the first real day of her summer vacation, she had departed the stifling heat of the Tucson summer for a more moderate mountain locale. It was to be the first stop on her, as she called it, "summer of freedom".
As a high school art teacher, she didn't make so much that it was something she could do every summer. But she'd worked hard for the last five years, lived frugally, and now had a tidy sum and a rickety old van to take her where she wished. For the time being, she was content to doodle in her journal and enjoy all that Flagstaff had to offer.
She slipped slowly on her chai, and hardly broke concentration from her latest sketch. Some sort of women emerged on the page, an angel perhaps, but whether she fell or rose was impossible to discern. Her pen strokes were practiced and elegant, yet flowed from her hand with a spontaneous thrust. This was the connection that she longed for with pen and ink, one that too often eluded her.
Although there were people and conversations all around her, they did not penetrate her concentration. That is, until she sensed that she was being starred at. She tried to brush it off but the pen wouldn't let her; with a small inward sigh she lifted her head and glanced surreptitiously around.
Not ten feet from her was a familiar face. She broke into a quiet grin. The face grinned back.
She rose from her chair and met him in the middle. Before a word was spoken his arms were wrapped around her, a great bear hug from a dear old friend. They embraced for a long minute, before a tightness constricted her throat and she broke the hug.
Ben had been one of her best friends while she was in college. They lived in the same duplex, a relationship that started from the mundane borrowing of coffee filters and such, that elevated to a warm connection. He was working on his masters in architecture, while she studied undergrad art education; if it weren't for the house their paths likely would never have crossed. For her, he was a refreshing contrast to her keg drinking and blunt smoking peers, to him, she was a fresh breeze of innocent idealism. They often shared coffee and long hours of conversation on the wide front porch, swinging in time with the crickets late into the night.
Ben sat with her and they caught up. While Abbie had been offered a teaching job in Tucson and stayed in her own college town upon graduation, Ben's career had taken him first to Boston, then to Madison, and now to Flagstaff. His own house had just been built up in the mountains and he wanted her to see it, but they did not rush to leave the cafe.
They did not speak of any loves or attachments. When Abbie had known him, Ben had always been the epitome of ladies man. He was tall and attractive, yes, but more than that, he had this golden charm to him. He was well read and easy to talk to, as eager to share his enlightened views as he was to chew on the opposing opinions. Abbie herself was not immune to these charms, but had fallen into the role of little sister and contented herself with that. It wasn't something she wanted to risk just to get caught up in his whirlwind of ladies, changing nearly every week. Besides, it was college, and she had ample men around to flirt in and out of her life.
Still, Abbie could not forget when time came for his departure. Ben had asked her to drive him to the airport, and she gladly obliged. It was a late night flight, and the usually slow Tucson airport was nearly deserted. She waited with him for his flight to depart, and they sat on the thin grey carpet, their backs up against the wall, and talked. There was a sadness deep within both of them that they tried to mask with jokes and stories. At last the time came for him to board; they stood. And hugged. It was a long, sweet, sad hug, broken with a kiss from Ben. It was a half inch longer than his usual sisterly kiss, and Abbie walked back to her car, not sure if she wanted to cry or touch herself. She got back to her apartment and did both.
They had promised to stay in touch, and while the first half year saw a regular exchange of emails and phone calls, it gradually dwindled. They were in separate worlds. It was just better to let some things go.
"How long will you be in Flag?" Ben asked.
Abbie shrugged. In truth, she had a whole summer ahead of her and was bound by no schedule. "A few days, maybe," she said. She found it hard to sit next to him. He smelled good, like smoke and sweat and sweetness.
Ben frowned. "Well, where are you staying?"
Abbie smiled, "I have a nice little set up in my van."
"Nonsense. You can stay with me."
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
Abbie drove her rickety old van up a narrow dirt road, following Ben and his pick-up. They weren't too far from town yet it was pitch black under the pines and seclusion. They reached a clearing, his house dimly lit in the distance.
Even in the darkness Abbie could tell it was no normal house. It looked like a hobbit den, all warm and round and peaking up from the ground. It was finished in red clay plaster, and grasses grew on the roof.
"It's beautiful," Abbie exclaimed as she toured his haven. It was an inviting space, a contrast with warm, small enclosures leading to wide openness, all designed to have minimal environmental impact. It was not huge nor tiny, just enough for a single person and a guest or two to be comfortable.
"Now for the best part," Ben said and pushed open the French doors that lead to the back. It opened into a large screened-in porch, that led to an open patio, complete with porch swing, table, chairs and hot tub. It was all wrapped up in ivy and tiny lanterns. "Look up," he said.
She did. The stars were too many to count, nearly too bright to look at. The moon hung low and orange in the sky.
