The Handshake
I saw his boot first.
Unfiltered April sun blinded me until he stepped onto the porch.
We shook hands. His, warm and firm. Mine, cool, hesitant. We talked about the land where my log cabin sat. We discussed the road I needed: clear passage in and out, stone, not muddy ruts. You could use a bench under the window. I nodded without comment.
We walked the few paths open. He told me the names of old trees that stood tall. He pointed to an eagle’s nest. A barn owl sat on a limb, watching, then flew ahead to another branch. The man beside me lowered his voice and slowed our pace. He’s letting us see him. He feels safe. Move quietly. The owl knew safe harbor. I felt it, too.
He took me for lunch at a local place. I was reluctant. Time managed me. Clients managed me. He said, You’re very serious. I replied, I’m committed.
We spoke again about the land. Perhaps a barn. For what? He smiled widely, Horses. Noble beasts. I went quiet. A life’s dream to ride a horse. I don’t ride. I know nothing about horses. He was still smiling.
But I do.
He noted how little I ate. I just nodded. Dessert? Home-baked pies and cakes. I declined and made a move to leave. Another two hours slipped by. I felt my day fade, but from what? Time was pliable for him. People walked in and out. Everyone knew him. More chatter and introductions. I felt restless. I need to go.
He took a scenic detour home along back roads through sprawling farmland and pastoral settings. Buildings built in the 1700s. Earlier. Old graveyards. He drove into the village below the mountain. Parked next to an ice cream parlor from another time. He ordered a sundae. I declined. His brow furrowed a bit, his blue eyes darkened a shade. This is homemade. I shook my head no. He ordered one for me anyway.
What do you do for fun? I truly didn’t understand. I started eating the sundae. The first spoonful, a taste of childhood, teen years, too. Smiles with Dad; giggles with girlfriends. I kept eating, slowly, while he told me the history of the village, the grand Esopus Creek running alongside it. Look! The gray water is cobalt blue at this hour. I heard the rushing water. We walked and sat next to it. He pointed out unique buildings, knew how old they were, and their persona fifty years ago.
That sundae was my dinner. And it was more. I felt less weary. I smiled, and at one point I laughed aloud.
I was home at 7 p.m. Twilight’s soft shadows fell across the thick forest surrounding my cabin.
He didn’t extend his hand. Next weekend I’ll have this cleared. You’ll be happy, Ms. Morgan. I see minor things I can do if you like. No extra cost.
The name is Lee Anne, Mr. Dixon. Call me Dave. You already know that. His voice deepened.
He drove down the road in his old pickup truck, stirring dust, until I could no longer see him.
About the Art
Title: ‘Another Time’
Copyright: Unknown
Source: Getty Images