First installment here:

http://open.salon.com/blog/nurseliz/2009/05/13/the_orphan_part_1_fiction

A went to the coffee shop, bought her mocha and waited for B to show. She brought a notebook, today's newspaper, and some papers from the lawyer to pass the time while she waited. She nervously sipped her mocha until it was gone, then she was immediately disappointed. She bought a poppyseed muffin and an iced tea, finished them both, but still no B. She read through the lawyer's papers, made a grocery list, a to-do list, then filled out the sudoku puzzle in the paper, which had been entirely too easy and a waste of her time.

She had positioned herself in a comfortable arm chair with her back to the corner. From here, she was able to see each and every person who came into the shop, but B was not among the customers this morning. She gathered her belongings and left the coffeeshop, quietly disgusted that she had been led too easily to expect something from nothing.

She often rode Sam to clear her mind, and tonight, she needed to clear her mind. It was filled with random stems to problems and storylines that hadn't happened yet. A dark doorway past which she couldn't see. A heavy feeling on her chest which kept her from breathing deeply. She recognized her anxiety as the physical manifestations of her parents' recent simultaneous and unexpected deaths. Her horse Sam calmed her with his presence alone. The two of them spoke their own language while together. He dipped his head down toward her and rubbed his neck against her ear.

Her parents had moved into town a few years ago and she felt lucky to find an acquaintance with which to board Sam until she could afford her own acreage. He had comfortable living quarters and frequent treats from visitors, being the most sociable of the horses living there.

Sam had been with her since she was a teenager. Her father had finally decided she was responsible enough to care for this heavily muscled big boy of a horse. Sam, short for Sampson, was her quiet friend and trustworthy secretkeeper. He enjoyed the occasional rides and frequent treats she brought him. He especially loved oatmeal raisin cookies, but today she brought him an apple, which he picked up with his lips, rolled around in his mouth as if to make her laugh, then chomped and chew, bits of apple flesh ending up on her shirt, enjoying himself.

She considered the handsome stranger she met at the coffee shop yesterday and remembered the confusion she felt as he moved closer to her. It had been so long since she had been with a man, she had forgotten what physical chemistry could feel like when it was right. She had been in such discomfort over her parents' death that his appearance was nearly unwelcome until she reluctantly let down her guard.

Sam nuzzled her neck and she laughed, his whiskers tickling her skin. He knew exactly how to make her feel better.

Morning came again, as did her compulsion for the expensive mocha she enjoyed most days. She had once calculated the cost of 5 mochas a week for the entire year, then how many hours extra she would have to work to pay for the luxury of her espresso-induced surges. In her mind, it was worth it, although her frugal father would disagree.

Her father had joked to her once about being buried in a pine box, but that would be denied him as well. Her mother wouldn't care what the casket looked like, just what she would be wearing. Her mother was always careful in the selection of clothes and never left the house without looking quite put-together. When they lived on the acreage, it was a little different; her mother sported jeans and boots for chores.  When they moved back to town, her mothers' wardrobe was more Talbot's than Cabela's.

Her mother was proud to have a daughter who was also a sharp dresser. "I'm just glad she inherited the fashion gene," her mother would tell her friends.  Today, however,  A had selected a comfortable ensemble: her favorite straight leg blue jeans with her Clarks sandals, topped with a one-of-a-kind handpainted knit tee she bought on a trip to France. She had been there for a conference paid for by her employer, but had ducked out of some of the more boring presentations to shop and enjoy herself. The shirt was a fun reminder of the trip and of playing hookey from her responsibilities.

The wild brushstrokes in the abstract design and bright color palette were made by another kind of person altogether; someone who embraced creativity, was unafraid of boundaries, and not embarrassed to be put on display for others to judge. She secretly longed to be this artist, but was unable to let go of her inadequacies, her shortcomings, her weaknesses. She often couldn't remember what her strengths were, aside from number puzzles and listmaking.

She drove to the coffeeshop with one intention: to get her caffeine fix. She walked through the door with intention, remembering the time she spent yesterday waiting for someone who disappointed her, like so many before him. Why she continued to let people like him give her hope for change, she had no idea.

As she approached the counter to order her mocha, she saw B rising from his chair at a nearby table. The look on his face was contrite, but also distressing.

"Please. I'm sorry I wasn't here yesterday, will you let me buy your mocha today?" He seemed sincere, but her skepticism still ruled.

"I'm getting my drink to go today." If he wanted to explain himself, it would have to be quickly and the reason would have to be compelling.

"Can you stay? The reason I was not here yesterday morning is because my aunt passed away. My sister has been working with her in Europe and we were on the phone all morning making arrangements. It was unexpected and my sister and I are the only ones she had left."

Damn him. He had a good excuse. And he still smellled really good.