Another town on this dusty road. The dots on the map crawled like ants. Michael pressed his thumb against the paper to pin them down. She’d mentioned her hometown hovered near Route 66, but she hadn’t given him the name.
The new place, Serendipity, greeted him with a chill that attacked his bones. The sky wore the steel gray cloak that preceded a harsh rain. Like the storm that had brought Valerie to him. She’d stood under the room’s overhang, dripping. He’d invited her inside the ceramics class out of pity and had met his destiny.
She brought in an exotic mango fragrance with her as she entered. Her hair shone pure gold, blinding him from the rain outside. They molded the mug that day against the pottery wheel, the clay yielding to the union of their fingers.
They lived together for three glorious months, sipping from that sea blue cup. He hadn’t cared that she was homeless. He upped his income with odd jobs, so she could stay in his matchbox apartment. He deserted his own pottery-making, because he’d found a different passion in life.
He never knew why Valerie left. He came home to find her belongings gone, including the mug. He sold his pieces, one by one, to fund a search. In the beginning, he had looked for Valerie. Now, with hope dwindling, he hunted for the elusive cup, a shard of her memory.
It was easy to spot the second-hand store, the drab building sticking out among its modern, sleek companions. He walked into Look Again, where a woman in a peasant blouse and a giant bohemian skirt greeted him. “Can I help you?”
Michael raked one shaky hand over his salt-and-pepper hair as he surveyed the ceramics area. He’d been forty to Valerie’s twenty when their relationship began, and his hair had been jet black. “I’m looking for a mug,” he said. “It’s a sea blue piece with two handles. My girlfriend Valerie and I created it as a symbol of our everlasting connection.”
A little girl peeked out from behind the woman’s skirt, and the scent of mango assaulted his nose. “Where’s your girl friend?” she asked.
He crouched down. “I didn’t see you there.” The fruit scent grew stronger. “How old are you?”
“Seven and three-quarters.”
Seven. Valerie left me seven years ago. A flash of memory hit him. A discarded positive pregnancy stick found in the trash the day she’d run off. She’d been pregnant with their little boy—or girl. He moved closer to the child. Her features were wrong; she didn’t have Valerie’s oval face or her soft brown eyes, but the hair was the same.
The gold called out to him, and he tugged a single strand loose, cupping his hands around the blond wisp. He walked out into the fierce November wind, where the ice breeze stole the golden thread away from his numb fingers.
The new place, Serendipity, greeted him with a chill that attacked his bones. The sky wore the steel gray cloak that preceded a harsh rain. Like the storm that had brought Valerie to him. She’d stood under the room’s overhang, dripping. He’d invited her inside the ceramics class out of pity and had met his destiny.
She brought in an exotic mango fragrance with her as she entered. Her hair shone pure gold, blinding him from the rain outside. They molded the mug that day against the pottery wheel, the clay yielding to the union of their fingers.
They lived together for three glorious months, sipping from that sea blue cup. He hadn’t cared that she was homeless. He upped his income with odd jobs, so she could stay in his matchbox apartment. He deserted his own pottery-making, because he’d found a different passion in life.
He never knew why Valerie left. He came home to find her belongings gone, including the mug. He sold his pieces, one by one, to fund a search. In the beginning, he had looked for Valerie. Now, with hope dwindling, he hunted for the elusive cup, a shard of her memory.
It was easy to spot the second-hand store, the drab building sticking out among its modern, sleek companions. He walked into Look Again, where a woman in a peasant blouse and a giant bohemian skirt greeted him. “Can I help you?”
Michael raked one shaky hand over his salt-and-pepper hair as he surveyed the ceramics area. He’d been forty to Valerie’s twenty when their relationship began, and his hair had been jet black. “I’m looking for a mug,” he said. “It’s a sea blue piece with two handles. My girlfriend Valerie and I created it as a symbol of our everlasting connection.”
A little girl peeked out from behind the woman’s skirt, and the scent of mango assaulted his nose. “Where’s your girl friend?” she asked.
He crouched down. “I didn’t see you there.” The fruit scent grew stronger. “How old are you?”
“Seven and three-quarters.”
Seven. Valerie left me seven years ago. A flash of memory hit him. A discarded positive pregnancy stick found in the trash the day she’d run off. She’d been pregnant with their little boy—or girl. He moved closer to the child. Her features were wrong; she didn’t have Valerie’s oval face or her soft brown eyes, but the hair was the same.
The gold called out to him, and he tugged a single strand loose, cupping his hands around the blond wisp. He walked out into the fierce November wind, where the ice breeze stole the golden thread away from his numb fingers.
