Seeking Sara Summers by Susan Gabriel

filled their plates Julia led them into the dining room where two elegant place settings awaited, as well as crystal glasses of juice and water. Sara complimented Julia on how beautiful everything was, which Julia promptly waved away.
    She continued on about Roger. How he wore his socks to bed and moved his lips when he read. They laughed at Roger’s expense, which Sara felt mildly bad about. She had liked Roger when she had met him. But she had missed laughing. In fact, she couldn’t remember the last time she had laughed this way. Laughter deep enough to make you ache, gasp for air and cross your legs all at the same time.
    Sara also hadn’t realized how much she had missed the sound of Julia’s voice. The highs and lows of it, and its resonance. They finished brunch and took a second cup of coffee back to the terrace. Sara looked down into the courtyard. An old woman sat knitting on the steps at the back door of the building. She gestured for Julia to look.
    “That’s Mrs. Vinci,” Julia said, “my friend Francesca’s grandmother. She’s been a widow since her husband was killed in Sicily in World War II.”
    “You’re kidding,” Sara said. 
    Mrs. Vinci looked up as if she had heard them. Julia waved and called out, “ Ciao ,” which the old woman ignored. “She hates Americans,” Julia said.
    Directly across, Mrs. Baraldi walked out on their balcony, a laundry basket in her hands. Julia called the same to Mrs. Baraldi who responded in a lilting, singing greeting. She began to hang out laundry on their balcony, pinning the clothes to the small line with quick perfection, stringing up Mr. Baraldi’s white jockey shorts like flags on the mast of a ship.
    Mr. Baraldi opened the window above his wife and waved when he saw them. “Are you enjoying the reunion with your friend?” he asked Julia.
    “Yes, very much, thank you,” Julia answered.
    “We met her downstairs,” he said. He and Sara exchanged polite nods. Then he wished Sara a pleasant visit.
    A floor apart, Mr. and Mrs. Baraldi conversed briefly in Italian before going back inside. Moments later they heard the clatter of dishes and a lively discussion when they reunited in the kitchen.
    “Do you think they’re talking about us?” Sara asked.
    “About me, at least,” Julia said. “I’m the strange American with no husband, two cats, and no job, at least as far as they can see. Someday I hope to understand the language well enough to catch them at it.”
    “They seem nice,” Sara said.
    “Oh, they’re wonderful,” she said. “I have been blessed with good friends and good neighbors.”
    The exhaustion in Sara’s body was her only evidence that the scene wasn’t a dream. She took a deep breath and relaxed into the chair on the terrace. It had taken her thirty years to arrive at the place she had dreamed about as a girl. A rush of gratitude filled Sara as she realized the emotional and physical distance she had traveled to be sitting on Julia’s terrace.
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     

CHAPTER EIGHT
     
    As the afternoon progressed Sara and Julia moved inside to the living room. Sunlight streamed through the side windows producing much better light than her home in New England with all the mature trees around it. Julia asked Sara about Grady and their children. Was it odd for her to imagine Sara with Grady? For years he wasn’t someone either one of them would have considered romantically. He was their friend, of course, but also the guy they couldn’t seem to get rid of.
    Sara filled Julia in on her life in worded snapshots. Julia studied Sara as she spoke, as if the artist in her was taking in shape, shadow and light. Sara kept her eyes lowered; looking up only periodically to make sure Julia was still listening. Did she avoid eye contact when they were girls? She couldn’t remember. Occasionally their eyes met before Sara looked away. Julia leaned closer, as though intent on capturing her gaze and locking it into place. But