The Way of the Heart

By late afternoon, the barn has settled into the hush Isabelle loves most. The hunt horses are out in their paddocks, lightweight green blankets on against the chill that has startled settling over Maryland at night. The stalls are clean and bedded for the morning. In the tack room, the last saddle takes on a shine under the leather conditioner, satisfying something in Isabelle’s heart. Isabelle puts away the saddle and the sponges, rinses her hands and dries them on a hand towel. She leaves the tack room, locking the door behind her.

A shiver goes through her as she walks to her car. October in Maryland has a smell as much as a temperature: cut grass cooling, hay dust, the first true chill breathing over both. Isabelle pulls on her favorite burgundy quilted vest on over her long-sleeved shirt and takes her auburn waves down from the day’s bun. The waves want to stay stubbornly on top of her head. She leans forward and shakes them out, hoping for the best.

She checks her phone. Enough time for coffee before dinner.

In a little while, Isabelle is meeting her sister, Emily. After a long day of hunting and horse care, she needs the caffeine first, especially with Emily’s extrovert energy.

Isabelle gets in and starts the small blue hatchback. Iron and Wine comes up low through the speakers, that hush of guitar that Isabelle finds most soothing. She backs out of her parking spot and starts the five-minute drive to the coffee shop, which is about halfway to town.

The coffee shop sits on a corner with an antique shop and a sandwich shop, three little stone cottages turned into shops. Flower boxes adorn the windows. The outdoor seating is abandoned, as it’s starting to get too chilly.

Isabelle hops out of her car. The bell above the door lifts her mouth into a smile automatically.

Warmth meets her at the threshold. Freshly ground coffee. Cinnamon. A hiss from the espresso machine. After a day in the cool air, it feels like stepping into another season. Leah, the barista, looks over the machine and waves, as she always does.

A couple of customers linger at the small wooden tables. Their talk is quiet enough to blend into the music. Isabelle joins the short line, then steps aside when the bell sounds again behind her.

At the pickup counter, a tall man is trying to get his wallet and phone into the same pocket at once. A large iced coffee lists in his other hand. A paper bag is tucked under his arms. The lid on the cup is not quite seated.

He turns too quickly, still looking down.

He does not see Isabelle.

The cup hits her first. Coffee and ice come after, a cold shock straight across the front of her shirt and vest. For one perfectly still heartbeat, neither she nor the man move.

An ice cube slides down the burgundy quilting and lands on the floor with a tiny clink.

The man’s face drains of color.

“Oh, no.”

He sets the lidless cup and the paper bag on the nearest table and grabs a stack of napkins from the counter.

“I am so, so sorry. I wasn’t looking where I was going,” he says. His accent is Scottish, warm but clipped with nerves.

Isabelle looks down at the stain blooming on her vest, cold already seeping through, and then back up at him. He looks pained.

A laugh escapes Isabelle before she can stop it. Only then does she really look at him.

He is broad-shouldered in a navy blue quarter-zip, sandy waves falling to his shoulders as if he has spent the day outside and forgotten them there. She can’t tell if his waves are a little strawberry - she doesn’t want to stare. His cheeks are pink from the October air. Well-worn paddock boots peek from under his jeans. He looks like a horseman who meant to be somewhere else five minutes ago.

What holds her though, are his eyes. Blue, and fixed on the coffee soaking into her vest with such genuine dismay that she almost laughs again. Instead, she snorts and covers her mouth.

“I promise I’m not laughing at you,” she says.

He does not look convinced. The corner of his mouth twitches, sheepish.

“I’ve made quite the first impression, haven’t I?” he says.

“I’m not likely to forget you, anyway.” Isabelle brushes another melting ice cube from the vest.

The man gives a quiet laugh, and his hand finds her elbow, light, only long enough to guide her aside as Leah arrives with a mop.

“Can I help?” he asks Leah, who politely declines. He turns back to Isabelle. “I really am sorry. Can I pay for your coffee?”

Isabelle looks down again, trying to compose her face. She finds his eyes again. “It’s totally fine. You don’t have to worry about it.”

“I insist.” Then he seems to remember himself, and holds out his hand. “I’m William Crawford.”

She puts her hand in his. “Isabelle Graham.”

“It’s very nice to meet you, Isabelle. Even under these, ah…circumstances.”

“It’s really okay. I’ve been doused in worse.” As soon as she says it, a flush creeps up her cheeks. “I work with horses,” she adds, as if that will salvage the sentence.

“Horses?”

“Horses.” She nods and looks down at his boots. “Which either you work with too, or you’re trying to make a fashion statement.”

It is William’s turn to color. He steps up to the counter. Leah had already made Isabelle’s usual before grabbing the mop. Leah returns, wiping her hands on a towel, and William pays for Isabelle’s coffee, apologizing profusely to her for the mess.

He returns to Isabelle, handling her the coffee very carefully. They stand off to the side, William’s coffee and pastry forgotten on the small table. William glances at the table.

“Shall we sit?”

The pang in Isabelle’s chest is quick and unwelcome. She glances at the clock behind the counter.

“That sounds lovely…but I’m meeting my sister for dinner in twenty minutes.”

She thinks she starts to see his face fall, but he arranges it again almost instantly.

“Of course.”

“I’m sorry. It was very kind of you to offer.”

“I understand.”

The pause that follows is awkward, as if both of them wish to fill it, but don’t know how.

Isabelle manages to fill it first. “It’s been so nice to meet you. Thank you for the coffee.”

“Of course. It’s the least I could do.”

He reaches the door before she does and opens it for her. October comes back in, sharp after the shop’s warmth. Isabelle gives him a smile that she hopes is steadier than she feels. She cannot think of a single thing to say, so she gives him an awkward little wave instead.

She walks to the car a little too quickly. The iced coffee is already starting to sweat against her palm. When the car door shuts, she lets out a breath she had not noticed she was holding.

“Isabelle Graham,” she says into the quiet, “why must you be so awkward?”

She starts the engine and puts the straw through the lid of the coffee. Iron and Wine is still there, patient. On the short drive to the restaurant, she realizes she didn’t take off the vest, which is heavy and cold with coffee.

Once she’s parked, she ditches it. There is a pink fleece on her passenger seat, the one that always lives there for weather like this. Even though the fleece is warm and dry, she still smells of coffee. Not a bad thing to smell like - and the scent brings a thought of William’s awkward embarrassment.

Poor William. But, she realizes she has been smiling the whole drive here.

Button it up, Isabelle, she says to herself, checking her appearance in the rearview before going in.

Emily is already at their usual place at the bar, tiny where Isabelle is not, dyed black hair and bangs she cuts herself, hazel eyes wide and lined with black. She waves. Isabelle slides onto the stool next to her. They hug, briefly.

“You. Why are you blushing?” Emily points.

Isabelle greets the bartender and puts in an order for a rosé. “I am not blushing. It’s cold outside.”

“Oh, please. It isn’t that cold. Why are you blushing?”

“A guy at the coffee shop bumped into me. He spilled his coffee all over me.”

“I’m sorry, what? Please tell me it was iced coffee.”

“Of course it was iced coffee, Emily.” Emily bursts out laughing and has to set down her gin and tonic. Isabelle tries not to laugh and fails a little, seeing that dismayed blue look in her mind again.

“I felt awful for him. He was so embarrassed.”

“You felt awful for him? You’re the one who got coffee spilled on you.”

Isabelle rolls her eyes. “Emiy.”

“Was he cute, at least?”

“Emily.”

Now Isabelle is definitely blushing. Emily reaches for the bread basket, satisfied.

“Ah. So he was cute.”

Isabelle thinks of the lines at the corners of his eyes, and the sandy waves slipping loose, and the careful way he said her name as if planned to remember it.

“Yes.” She relents. “He was.”

“Did he ask for your number?”

“No.”

“Well.” Emily turns to the bartender to order dinner. “His loss.”

Isabelle takes a piece of bread. She has never seen him in the coffee shop before, and she would have. Horse people collect there like burrs on a wool blanket. Maybe he was passing through. Maybe had an appointment at a farm in town. Maybe she’ll never know.

The missed table by the window stays in her mind, quietly.

You only met him for five minutes, she tells herself.

Then it’s her turn to order, and for the rest of dinner, she lets Emily have the floor. The thought of him doesn’t go anywhere. It only waits, like the scent of coffee will linger in her car when she returns to it, rising from the burgundy vest.