The Color He Kept

At sunset in Monument Valley, the sandstone buttes held their warmth after the desert floor had begun to darken. From the visitor overlook, Deirdre watched amber deepen toward red, with pale coral clouds gathering above the broad spaces between the formations. A little wind lifted dust beyond the parking area. She had expected to feel the size of the place; she had not expected to spend so much of the evening wondering why the man beside her was dissatisfied with seven perfectly good shades of red.

He had arranged the small fabric squares on the notebook in his lap, weighting their corners with his glasses case. Every few minutes he held one up, compared it with the valley, and put it back. Once he selected a blue so improbable that Deirdre almost commented. She resisted. They had spent much of the afternoon on the same tour, and she had already learned that Rafi liked making up his own mind. She liked this about him, although she was increasingly tempted to influence it.

Their Navajo guide had brought the group back after a tour along authorized routes, and Deirdre had stayed at the overlook with time left before closing. She was glad they had chosen to go with someone who knew the valley as a lived place. The afternoon had contained roads, homes, work, and the ordinary courtesy of listening; the landscape was more interesting to her for belonging to people. Now, with the guide's vehicle gone, she was content to remain where visitors were welcome and watch the light change.

She was forty-eight and traveling between a visit to her brother in Phoenix and a few days with an old friend in Utah. Her work as a court reporter in Leeds made her accustomed to recording what people said without becoming part of their conversation. On holiday she had discovered that this habit could follow her. Earlier, Rafi had asked for her opinion about something their group was discussing and then actually waited for it. The small insistence had surprised her into speaking more than she usually did among strangers.

He was forty-six, a physiotherapist from Manchester, and had an easily recognizable laugh. She had heard it from the other end of the tour vehicle before she knew his name. When she sat beside him during a stop, he had made room without rearranging himself into someone more impressive. There was a crease in his shirt, dust on his shoes, and a directness in his attention that she found increasingly difficult to think about impartially.

Now the color samples required an explanation. She asked if he was planning to paint something. Rafi shook his head and told her the fabric was for a quilt. This accounted for the squares but not for the seriousness with which he regarded them. He had never made one before, he admitted. He had enrolled in an evening class after seeing the notice in his local library. His first practice square had come out as a trapezoid, and he was trying not to interpret that as a prediction.

Deirdre laughed. Her own brief attempt at pottery had produced a bowl that required three folded napkins to stand upright. He asked whether she still had it, and she said she kept her keys in it. His approval was immediate. Objects were allowed to be useful before they became beautiful. She looked at his hands smoothing the fabric and wondered whether he applied the same generosity to people.

Beside them, a sultry woman with sea-green eyes and a wine-red scarf passed the bench on her way back toward the visitor buildings. Around them, voices had grown quieter as the colors deepened. Rafi gathered the samples before a gust could take them, and one remained between Deirdre's fingers: a muted violet, almost gray. He had dismissed it earlier. Held against the growing shadows, it suddenly seemed more exact than any of the reds.

She showed him. He leaned close to compare the square with the valley, and the side of his arm rested against hers. Neither withdrew. For a few seconds they were looking at the same thing from almost the same point, and she became aware of how easily she could turn her face toward his. Instead she asked who the quilt was for.

He took a little longer to answer than the question seemed to require. Then he said it was for his own bed, in a flat he had recently bought. His divorce had been amicable and years ago; the long delay in choosing a home had been entirely his. He had rented furnished rooms while his daughter finished school, always treating the arrangement as temporary. She was now living happily with friends, and he had realized that he was the only person still waiting for his life to begin its next part.

The quilt had been his first decision for the new place. He could buy one, of course. He wanted to learn how to make something he would use every day, and he wanted its colors to remind him of this journey. Yet he kept selecting the brightest reds because they seemed to be what he ought to bring back from Monument Valley. The quieter colors felt like getting it wrong.

Deirdre turned the violet square in the light. He had not brought an impossible blue after all. The shadows were becoming blue around the distant formations, with lavender where their edges softened. She told him that nobody else had to recognize his holiday in a blanket. He looked at her, then out at the valley, visibly relieved by permission she had no special authority to give.

“I wanted to remember how it felt to sit here,” he said.

She felt her own voice change when she answered. “Then keep that one.”

He placed the violet beside a warm red and a small piece of cream. The combination pleased them both. Deirdre helped him return the other squares to their envelope, and when their hands met over the notebook, he let his remain beside hers. The small question that had occupied the evening was answered. What she wanted to know now could not be settled by comparing colors.

Before the overlook closed, they walked toward the parking area together. They were staying nearby in separate accommodations, and he asked if she would like to meet for a meal. She said yes, then surprised herself by asking about the quilt class. It met on Tuesdays. She wanted to see the first finished square, even if it leaned. Rafi looked so pleased that she added her number to his phone before either of them could make the invitation sound less personal.

At her car, they paused. The red had faded from the valley, leaving the buttes dark against the remaining brightness. Rafi asked if he could kiss her, and she answered by placing her hand against his cheek. He leaned down, giving her time to meet him, and she did so with an eagerness that made him smile against her mouth. When she drew him closer for a second kiss, the glasses case in his jacket pressed awkwardly against her arm. They laughed, shifted, and tried again.

They settled the place and time for dinner without pretending that was all they were arranging. Deirdre watched him tuck the envelope safely into his bag. The violet square was still on top. Later there would be a photograph of crooked stitching, a message she could answer, a reason to learn the train times between their cities. For now he rested his hand over hers once more before they separated, and she stood in the cooling air long enough to enjoy the simple fact that she would see him again in an hour.