‘Love's Ways’

Pia Quintano is a New York based writer/painter who often suggests narratives with her artwork. Her paintings were sold at the Frank J.Miele Contemporary American Folk Art Gallery in NYC until it closed. Her artwork has appeared in Glass Mountain, Peatsmoke, Saranac Review, Emerson Review, Red Ogre and Harpur Palate among other journals.

Love's Ways

Susan Evans had never thought her sleepy Pensacola subdivision would feel like the beginning of something new.

The neighborhood was a quiet place, wrapped in the lull of routine. She lived with her widowed mother in a modest, butter-yellow home nestled beneath whispering pine trees and laced with power lines that crackled gently during storms. Every day passed like the one before—mornings with coffee on the porch, afternoons filled with errands and light housework, evenings watching the news or reading aloud to her mother. It was a good life. Predictable. Peaceful. But uneventful.

Until the day William Bradford died.

He’d lived two doors down for as long as Susan could remember—an old man with a fondness for birds, rocking chairs, and mowing his lawn twice a week whether it needed it or not. When the news came that he’d suffered a fatal heart attack, the neighborhood gave a collective, solemn nod. They left flowers by his mailbox, attended the funeral, shared old stories, and went on with their lives. But a few days later, a car pulled into the gravel driveway, and from it stepped a man who looked like a photograph of William come to life—just younger, stronger.

Susan met him at her mailbox as the sun dipped through the Spanish moss, casting long golden shadows across the cracked pavement.

“Hi,” he said, a cautious smile forming. “I’m Bill. William’s son. Here to fix up Dad’s old house, sell it, and head back home.”

“Susan,” she replied, extending her hand. “Happy to meet you. Your father was a great guy.”

He shook it. His palm was calloused, warm. His eyes were a soft gray-blue—steady, kind. A little jolt passed through her as their hands met. She tucked her hair behind her ear, smiling without realizing it.

They crossed paths again at the paint store two days later. She was buying touch-up paint for the kitchen cabinets. He was getting supplies to freshen up his father’s house.

They reached for the same can of eggshell white.

“Guess we both have fixer-uppers,” he said, grinning.

“I think my mom’s more like a ‘permanently under construction’ zone,” she replied, laughing.

That led to conversation—easy, unexpected, unhurried. He told her about growing up in Pensacola before moving to Atlanta. About his divorce two years ago. About how he hadn’t been back in years, and how strange it felt to walk through the rooms of his father’s house alone. She listened and told him about her mother, about her job at the local florist, about how she hadn’t expected to still be in the neighborhood at thirty-five, but somehow, she didn’t mind. With every word, a connection deepened.

Something in her stirred. Something she hadn’t felt in a long time.

When Bill invited her and her mother over for a cookout the following weekend, she said yes before he finished asking.

The evening was warm and alive with summer’s breath. Susan brought deviled eggs and wore her favorite southern sundress, and her best smile. Her mother, dressed in lavender and pearls, brought an old family recipe for baked beans and a curious twinkle in her eye.

They sat on the back patio of the Bradford’s house, now Bill’s, and shared laughter, stories, and food under the soft hum of string lights. The marvelous scent of grilled burgers and honeysuckle filled the air. From a portable speaker on the porch came the crooning of Sam Cooke, then The Platters, music of a gentler, golden age. Her mother seemed to glow in the setting sun, sipping sweet tea and humming along.

As dusk fell and stars began to blink into view, her mother rose from her seat.

“Well, I’ll leave you two young folks to enjoy the night,” she said, casting a knowing glance at Susan.

Bill walked her mother to the gate, then returned to Susan’s side with two glasses of wine and a small, hesitant smile.

They wandered toward the edge of the yard, beneath a pair of old willow trees whose long tendrils moved gently in the breeze like green lace. The moon was full, bathing everything in silver light. Crickets sang. Somewhere nearby, a neighbor’s wind chime gave a lazy clink.

The moment grew still, soft.

“I don’t know what I expected when I came back here,” Bill said, looking up at the sky. “But it wasn’t this. Wasn’t you.”

She felt her breath catch.

Then he reached for her hand—gentle, sure.

Their fingers wove together like they’d done it for years.

She turned toward him, heart thudding.

They kissed.

It started tender, hesitant—then deepened. Urgent, like two people waking from a long sleep and realizing how much they’d missed. The world quieted around them. Just the breeze, the moonlight, and the press of two souls recognizing something rare and real.

When they finally pulled apart, Susan felt dizzy.

He looked back at the old house, at the cracked steps and peeling trim, the rusted wind vane atop the roof.

“I was gonna sell it,” he said. “Didn’t think there was anything for me here anymore.”

She looked up into his face, still close enough to feel his breath.

“Maybe you were wrong.”

He smiled.

“Maybe I was.”

A silence passed between them, full but unspoken.

“Maybe I won’t sell,” he said quietly, more to himself than to her.

Susan’s heart thudded once more.

She smiled, fingers squeezing his.

“I hoped you wouldn’t.”

They stood that way for a long while—two people in the middle of something neither of them had seen coming, something ordinary and extraordinary all at once.

Love, she thought. Real. Unmistakable.

M.D. Smith of Huntsville, Alabama, writer of over 350 flash stories, has published digitally in Frontier Times, Flash Fiction Magazine, Bewilderingstories.com, and many more. Retired from running a television station, he lives with his wife of 64 years and three cats. https://mdsmithiv.com/