bumbled on in. “Nice, June,” I muttered.
“What’s nice?”
I turned to him. I thought of him naked. I blushed. I thought of him in bed naked down the hall. I blushed further. I thought of us naked in the bed down the hall. I turned away and said, again, so ridiculously, “I love lobsters in bed naked.”
He laughed. I blushed further. “Stop blushing, June!” I muttered out loud.
Humiliated.
“So, you’re renting this home?” I took another bite of lobster, dipped in butter and garlic sauce. It was absolutely delicious.
We’d set up a table outside on his deck, the ocean panoramically displayed for 180 degrees in both directions, the summer air warm, the smell of salt wafting in and out.
“A friend of mine’s mother owns it. Her name is Frankie Schaeffer. Frankie fell in love with a man she met on a wild girls’ trip to France and stayed in Paris. Sixty-two years old and she said she’s found true love for the first time in her life and isn’t leaving.”
I laughed. “Good for her. So that’s what happened. I’ve never met the owner and no one is ever here.”
“She’s here in spirit.” Reece laughed.
“I doubt it. The woman fell in love with a Frenchman in Paris. She’s having the time of her life eating croissants and coffee in tiny white cups.”
“Okay, you win. Her spirit is in France. By the way, I like your hair.”
“You do?” I self-consciously pulled on it.
“Yes. I can only compare it to gold moving.”
Gold moving.
“With sunshine and sparkles thrown in.”
Sunshine and sparkles. “Are you a poet?”
He laughed. “Not quite. I say what I think.”
“So, you’re a flirt.” I ignored a stab in my heart. Darn it. Flirts were dangerous. Teasingly, attractively dangerous. Light and fluffy and you are one of a harem ...
“Not at all. You’re the first one in many years.”
He said it sincerely, so straight on. Could it possibly be true? I took a deep breath so I could spit out the truth. This was not gonna be fun. “Reece, I need to be completely honest with you.”
“Please do.”
I gathered my strength by studying the cliffs in the distance and the tide pools below it, then turned back to him. “I’m in the middle of a divorce.”
Reece’s eyes widened slightly and his expression froze, that hard jaw not moving.
“Or, I should say, I’m at what I hope will be the end of my divorce. It’s a mess. I’m a mess. I left him two years ago. He doesn’t want a divorce and he is fighting it with all he has, every loophole, every delay tactic.”
I hoped the sun, bright and bold in a deep blue sky, would warm up my scared-stiff and frozen body. “I should have told you at lunch, but I didn’t want to.”
“Why didn’t you want to tell me then?”
“Why?” I heard no judgment in his tone, only a question. “Because I wanted ...”
“You wanted what?”
“I wanted to go to lunch with you, to talk and laugh, and I didn’t want to discuss the black, frothing muck in my life, this constant sadness, this fight, this disaster.” For once I was not awash in lust while looking at him. My sadness was squashing the lust. “I didn’t even know if we would see each other again, and I wanted to take a break out of my life and just be with you.”
He thought for a while, watching the ocean. Maybe I should leave now?
“Within ten minutes of talking to you,” he said, “I knew we’d see each other again.”
“Because you knew we were living next door to each other?”
“No. Because I wanted to be with you again.”
I wanted to cry. I had so wanted to be with him, too.
“As far as your soon-to-be-ex-husband. Do you still love him? Do you hate him? Is the marriage over in your mind, or are there a whole bunch of things that are still upsetting you?”
“I have been through a mind-numbing range of emotions with this divorce, with the ending of my marriage, and I feel nothing for my ex-husband except this anger and frustration that he’s
“What’s nice?”
I turned to him. I thought of him naked. I blushed. I thought of him in bed naked down the hall. I blushed further. I thought of us naked in the bed down the hall. I turned away and said, again, so ridiculously, “I love lobsters in bed naked.”
He laughed. I blushed further. “Stop blushing, June!” I muttered out loud.
Humiliated.
“So, you’re renting this home?” I took another bite of lobster, dipped in butter and garlic sauce. It was absolutely delicious.
We’d set up a table outside on his deck, the ocean panoramically displayed for 180 degrees in both directions, the summer air warm, the smell of salt wafting in and out.
“A friend of mine’s mother owns it. Her name is Frankie Schaeffer. Frankie fell in love with a man she met on a wild girls’ trip to France and stayed in Paris. Sixty-two years old and she said she’s found true love for the first time in her life and isn’t leaving.”
I laughed. “Good for her. So that’s what happened. I’ve never met the owner and no one is ever here.”
“She’s here in spirit.” Reece laughed.
“I doubt it. The woman fell in love with a Frenchman in Paris. She’s having the time of her life eating croissants and coffee in tiny white cups.”
“Okay, you win. Her spirit is in France. By the way, I like your hair.”
“You do?” I self-consciously pulled on it.
“Yes. I can only compare it to gold moving.”
Gold moving.
“With sunshine and sparkles thrown in.”
Sunshine and sparkles. “Are you a poet?”
He laughed. “Not quite. I say what I think.”
“So, you’re a flirt.” I ignored a stab in my heart. Darn it. Flirts were dangerous. Teasingly, attractively dangerous. Light and fluffy and you are one of a harem ...
“Not at all. You’re the first one in many years.”
He said it sincerely, so straight on. Could it possibly be true? I took a deep breath so I could spit out the truth. This was not gonna be fun. “Reece, I need to be completely honest with you.”
“Please do.”
I gathered my strength by studying the cliffs in the distance and the tide pools below it, then turned back to him. “I’m in the middle of a divorce.”
Reece’s eyes widened slightly and his expression froze, that hard jaw not moving.
“Or, I should say, I’m at what I hope will be the end of my divorce. It’s a mess. I’m a mess. I left him two years ago. He doesn’t want a divorce and he is fighting it with all he has, every loophole, every delay tactic.”
I hoped the sun, bright and bold in a deep blue sky, would warm up my scared-stiff and frozen body. “I should have told you at lunch, but I didn’t want to.”
“Why didn’t you want to tell me then?”
“Why?” I heard no judgment in his tone, only a question. “Because I wanted ...”
“You wanted what?”
“I wanted to go to lunch with you, to talk and laugh, and I didn’t want to discuss the black, frothing muck in my life, this constant sadness, this fight, this disaster.” For once I was not awash in lust while looking at him. My sadness was squashing the lust. “I didn’t even know if we would see each other again, and I wanted to take a break out of my life and just be with you.”
He thought for a while, watching the ocean. Maybe I should leave now?
“Within ten minutes of talking to you,” he said, “I knew we’d see each other again.”
“Because you knew we were living next door to each other?”
“No. Because I wanted to be with you again.”
I wanted to cry. I had so wanted to be with him, too.
“As far as your soon-to-be-ex-husband. Do you still love him? Do you hate him? Is the marriage over in your mind, or are there a whole bunch of things that are still upsetting you?”
“I have been through a mind-numbing range of emotions with this divorce, with the ending of my marriage, and I feel nothing for my ex-husband except this anger and frustration that he’s
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