It's You by Jane Porter

meals with dozens of strangers than live in my home with me.
    “I’m trying very hard not to take this personally, Dad,” I say, lightly, crisply, to hide the pain. It’s the voice I use every day at work. “But I can’t help thinking that if I were a dog, you’d want to live with me.”
    “But you’re not a dog.”
    I should have been.
    The corner of my mouth lifts even as a curl of hurt curves inside my chest. A hot painful question mark. Why doesn’t he love me?
    Why can’t I be a dog?
    A brown and white Spaniel named Freckles because then he’d touch me all the time.
    And just like that, my eyes burn and I’m fighting so much emotion that I think it could take my legs out, lay me flat. The feeling. The grieving. How does one get from here to there? How does one get through life unscathed?
    You don’t.
    Suddenly I need to get up, move. Murmuring an excuse, something about the bathroom, I rise, walk out, my striped sundress swishing, low kitten heels clicking on the dining room floor.
    Heads lift, faces turn, eyes watching me. Leaving the diningroom I use the ladies’ room and wash my hands, studying my face briefly in the mirror. My tan is fading. My freckles are pale on the bridge of my nose. My mouth is too wide. It always has been. I smile at myself. My mouth is huge, all those teeth. But they’re very straight and not that fake white advertised in the back of complimentary airplane magazines.
    Leaving the bathroom I’m not ready to return to the dining room of the old and infirm. Instead I walk down the hall and slip out one of the French doors in the Reading Room to the wide, flat terrace overlooking the rolling hills covered with row after tidy row of grapes. What a view. Oak trees that give way to vineyards. Could Dad have found a better view anywhere?
    Maybe Mom and Dad knew what they were doing choosing this as their final stop.
    “You’re Bill’s daughter, Alison,” a deep male voice says behind me.
    I glance over my shoulder, towards the French doors. It’s the Hallahan guy. The vintner. I recognize the blue shirt and the dark blond hair, shaggy at the back.
    Incidentally, his broad shoulders have nothing on his face.
    He’s tan, which makes his eyes intensely blue. A man in his late thirties, mature, and ruggedly handsome. Like the Robert Redford my mom used to love in
All the President’s Men
.
    My mom would love him.
    I feel my mom suddenly, with me, a prickle of my skin, little goose bumps covering my arms, a tingle at the back of my neck.
Hello, Mom.
    And the tingle is stronger.
    I rub my forearm. “Yes. You’re Edie’s great-nephew.”
    “People have been talking,” he replies. “But then, when you’re my great-aunt Edie’s age, I don’t suppose there is a lot else to do.”
    I smile faintly. “No. I don’t suppose there is.” And then I don’t know what else to say to him, aware that he is Craig Hallahan,the nice, older Hallahan, but nonetheless a most eligible bachelor and chased by all the ladies.
    Uncomfortable, I turn back to the rolling hills. He doesn’t take the hint, although I suppose it’s not much of a hint, and joins me outside on the patio.
    I don’t know what to do now. I don’t really want to talk but I don’t know how to just stand here in silence, either. “It’s a beautiful view,” I say at length.
    He glances down at me. “I don’t see a view anymore. Just grapes.” His mouth quirks. “A friend that once surfed professionally says he never sees the ocean, just the waves.”
    “Would you prefer the view?”
    “I’d like to be able to see what others see.” He looks at me, lashes lowered, lips pressed. “I’m no longer detached.”
    “Is that a bad thing?”
    “Good question.” He hesitates a moment. “When you look at people and they smile, do you see the smile, or the teeth?”
    “Touché.” My face grows hot as I admit, “I see the teeth.”
    The corner of his mouth lifts higher. “My aunt said you’re a dentist. I think