at the last moment, he began gathering his paints and brushes. While he waited there for the crane, he would paint a picture of it standing against the familiar backdrop of the live oak trees and the sawgrass and the pale blue sky. That, he felt, might even encourage the crane to make itself visible to him again.
As he washed out his cup and thought very hard about painting a picture of the crane, Sophie passed by on the sidewalk, hurrying a little so she could go on through town before people started moving about. After all, it was Sunday—the day for church. And they wouldn’t understand, even as she herself didn’t quite understand, that on this one morning, at least, she couldn’t bear being shut up in the narrow, little white building.
Chapter Eight
When Mr. Oto arrived at the river, he saw Sophie sitting in her canvas chair and dabbing paint onto paper. He was completely surprised to find her there, and he intended to turn around and leave before she saw him. But his feet refused to move, so that he stood immobilized and helpless, looking at where the morning light rested like a veil on Sophie’s white arms.
From behind him, he could hear the people in the church singing, “What a fellow-ship, what a joy di-vine...”
And although he never made a single sound, Sophie—unbelievably!—turned and looked squarely at him, as if she had known he was standing there the whole time. No offended surprise in her face this time. Only curiosity.
“Good morning?” She phrased it as a question, so that the words also held the meaning of “What are you doing here?”
“Please excuse me,” Mr. Oto mumbled, unable to comprehend that he was actually face-to-face, once again, with his dear Miss Sophie , and yet completely determined that he would never repeat his bad manners of their one and only previous meeting.
“I will leave.” He heard the words come from his own mouth, but until he heard them, he didn’t know what they would be.
“Excuse me?” Sophie called to him, for she wasn’t sure she heard what he said. It was the sudden male voice that confused her, though it was so soft, she could barely hear it.
“No... you please excuse me ,” he babbled, not even understanding, himself, what it was he was trying to say. “I will go.”
But once again the voice held her. Something about it was like listening to music and waiting for the deep tones of a trombone to balance the high, lonely violin.
“No—don’t go,” she said at last. “I see that you have paints and brushes. You’ll never find another place for painting like this one. It’s really quite the best there is. And I don’t mind,” she added, surprising herself.
Because why on earth was she inviting him, of all people, to share her precious riverbank? Yet at the same time, she remembered his deep and humble bow in the hardware store. Besides, he would not talk much, and when he did speak, the tone would be nice to hear. And perhaps there would be something comforting in having him nearby.
“I hope this day sees you in excellent health.” The measured words, the gentle tone, the soft sincerity—she smiled and glanced at him where he bowed low before her.
“Yes, thank you.” Then, without another word, she turned back to her painting.
For long minutes, she heard no other sound and thought that perhaps he had left after all. Or perhaps he was still in the deep bow, waiting for... what? Her permission to stand erect again?
Then she heard his pencils and brushes rattling as he sat down at a respectful distance and a bit behind her and began to sketch. His heart was pounding so hard that the collar of his shirt trembled, but still he managed at last to begin sketching the head and the long, graceful neck of the crane before his pencil trailed off the edge of the paper and he found himself watching Sophie far more than he was looking at the sketch.
And in that very strange way in which it can happen, he gazed at her for so long
As he washed out his cup and thought very hard about painting a picture of the crane, Sophie passed by on the sidewalk, hurrying a little so she could go on through town before people started moving about. After all, it was Sunday—the day for church. And they wouldn’t understand, even as she herself didn’t quite understand, that on this one morning, at least, she couldn’t bear being shut up in the narrow, little white building.
Chapter Eight
When Mr. Oto arrived at the river, he saw Sophie sitting in her canvas chair and dabbing paint onto paper. He was completely surprised to find her there, and he intended to turn around and leave before she saw him. But his feet refused to move, so that he stood immobilized and helpless, looking at where the morning light rested like a veil on Sophie’s white arms.
From behind him, he could hear the people in the church singing, “What a fellow-ship, what a joy di-vine...”
And although he never made a single sound, Sophie—unbelievably!—turned and looked squarely at him, as if she had known he was standing there the whole time. No offended surprise in her face this time. Only curiosity.
“Good morning?” She phrased it as a question, so that the words also held the meaning of “What are you doing here?”
“Please excuse me,” Mr. Oto mumbled, unable to comprehend that he was actually face-to-face, once again, with his dear Miss Sophie , and yet completely determined that he would never repeat his bad manners of their one and only previous meeting.
“I will leave.” He heard the words come from his own mouth, but until he heard them, he didn’t know what they would be.
“Excuse me?” Sophie called to him, for she wasn’t sure she heard what he said. It was the sudden male voice that confused her, though it was so soft, she could barely hear it.
“No... you please excuse me ,” he babbled, not even understanding, himself, what it was he was trying to say. “I will go.”
But once again the voice held her. Something about it was like listening to music and waiting for the deep tones of a trombone to balance the high, lonely violin.
“No—don’t go,” she said at last. “I see that you have paints and brushes. You’ll never find another place for painting like this one. It’s really quite the best there is. And I don’t mind,” she added, surprising herself.
Because why on earth was she inviting him, of all people, to share her precious riverbank? Yet at the same time, she remembered his deep and humble bow in the hardware store. Besides, he would not talk much, and when he did speak, the tone would be nice to hear. And perhaps there would be something comforting in having him nearby.
“I hope this day sees you in excellent health.” The measured words, the gentle tone, the soft sincerity—she smiled and glanced at him where he bowed low before her.
“Yes, thank you.” Then, without another word, she turned back to her painting.
For long minutes, she heard no other sound and thought that perhaps he had left after all. Or perhaps he was still in the deep bow, waiting for... what? Her permission to stand erect again?
Then she heard his pencils and brushes rattling as he sat down at a respectful distance and a bit behind her and began to sketch. His heart was pounding so hard that the collar of his shirt trembled, but still he managed at last to begin sketching the head and the long, graceful neck of the crane before his pencil trailed off the edge of the paper and he found himself watching Sophie far more than he was looking at the sketch.
And in that very strange way in which it can happen, he gazed at her for so long
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