Love Anthony by Lisa Genova Page B

filling out the paperwork for a library card, she hustles out the door and down the front steps of the library with her loaned book in hand, relieved to be out of there. She walks around the corner to The Bean, expecting to stroll right in, but her progress is stopped well outside the entrance by a snaking line of customers. It’s freezing cold, and the line is long, yet everyone around her appears to be in exceptionally good cheer. Olivia hasn’t left her neighborhood much, but when she does venture out—to the grocery store, to the bank—there are never any crowds. She hasn’t waited in a single line since she’smoved to Nantucket. She’s become used to the quiet bubble of her life here, the convenience of getting in and getting out with whatever she needs with minimal human contact.
    She glances down at her bare wrist, looking for the time, wondering how long this is going to take. It’s got to be well after noon. Why are all these people here? She pulls the collar of her coat up over her chin, shoves her hands into her pockets, closes her eyes, and breathes.
    At long last, the line inches forward, and she steps inside. The café is exactly as she remembers—the worn wooden floor, the teardrop crystal chandelier, the antique copper and pewter teapots on the shelves, the glass canisters filled with biscotti. But her air of enjoyment in the familiar surroundings deflates when she notices every seat in the house is occupied.
    “Can I help you?” asks the girl behind the counter.
    “I’d like a large latte and a blueberry scone, please.”
    “We’re all out of scones.”
    “Oh, okay, just the latte then.”
    “Milk or soy?”
    “Milk.”
    “Regular, two percent, or nonfat?”
    “Uh, regular. What’s going on today?”
    “Sorry?”
    “Why are there so many people here?”
    “The daffodils.”
    Olivia thinks. “Is that a band?”
    The girls looks Olivia up and down, sizing her up, the way young people look at older people who don’t have a clue. “The flower? You don’t know? Why are you here?”
    “I live here.”
    “Huh,” says the girl, not believing this at all.
    “So all these people are here to see some daffodils?”
    “Yah, there’s like three million in bloom all over the island.”
    Three million . Really? She hadn’t noticed any. And is someoneactually counting these? Olivia suspects that this girl must be exaggerating, the way young people do. “So, what, people drive around and look at flowers?”
    The girl hands Olivia her latte, and Olivia pays for it.
    “There’s like a whole festival, the parade, the tailgating—”
    “Tailgating?”
    “Over in ’Sconset.”
    “Is there a football game?”
    The girl laughs.
    “Excuse me, are you done? There’s a long line here,” says the guy behind Olivia.
    “Sorry.”
    Olivia steps out of the way and looks around the room one last, hopeless time. No seats. She nudges her way against the incoming line back outside and returns to her car. As she bounces over the cobblestones of Main Street and then turns onto the smooth pavement, she notices, for the first time, all the daffodils—planted in gardens and window boxes, lining fences and front yards, “wild” crops of them dotting the sides of the road. They’re everywhere. How did she not notice any before?
    Daffodils and tailgating. Curious, she decides to take a quick detour over to ’Sconset. She and David used to tailgate with their friends before every home football game at Boston College. Everyone wore BC sweatshirts and jackets and hats. Someone always brought a grill and a couple of kegs—charred cheeseburgers and Milwaukee’s Best in plastic cups. David and his friends would talk in passionate detail about the players, and someone would invariably compare the quarterback to Flutie, and they’d argue over who was better. They’d all be rowdy and drunk by midmorning, well before kickoff.
    As she approaches Main Street in ’Sconset, there they are, the tailgaters, parked