shrugged, then drained his beer.
"News is news. Know what you need?"
"What?" Wary.
"Picnic."
"I had a sandwich at three."
Dropping his chair to the floor, Pete stood, turned me by the shoulders, and gently pushed me from the kitchen.
"Go grade a paper or something. Meet me at the gazebo at eight."
"I don't know, Pete."
I did know. And every cel in my hindbrain was running up a warning flag.
Pete and I had been married for twenty years, separated for only a few. Though our marriage had posed many chalenges, sexual attraction had never been one of them.
We'd rocked when we were newly-weds. We could stil rock.
If Pete hadn't rocked off the reservation.
My libido's view of Pete worried me. Things were going wel with Ryan. I didn't want to do something that might compromise that. And the last time Pete and I spent an evening together we'd ended up like kids in the back of a Chevy.
"I do know," Pete said. "Go."
"Pete—"
"You've got to eat. I've got to eat. We'l do it together and include a little sand."
There's something deep in my psyche that links food with human interaction. When home alone, I live on carry-out or frozen dinners. When solo on the road, I order room service and dine with Letterman or Raymond or Oprah.
Company did sound nice. And Pete was a good cook.
"This isn't a date, Pete."
"Of course not."
7
I GOT THROUGH THREE MORE EXAMS BEFORE DRIFTING OFF. Slumped sideways on my bed pilows, I floated in that limbo between waking and sleep, dreaming meaningless snatches. Running on a beach. Arranging bones with Emma.
In one fragment, I was sitting in a circle at an AA meeting. Ryan was there. Pete. A tal, blond man. The three were talking, but I couldn't hear the conversation. Their faces were in shadow so I couldn't read their expressions.
I awoke to a room bathed in orange and a breeze clattering the palmettos against the outside deck. The clock said eight ten.
I walked to the bathroom and rehabbed the topknot. While I'd been dozing, my bangs had decided to go for that spiky thing. I wet them, grabbed a brush, and began blow-drying. Halfway through, I stopped. Why? And why had I bothered earlier with makeup? Tossing the brush, I hurried downstairs.
Anne's house is connected to the beach by a long wooden boardwalk. A gazebo occupies a deck at the walkway's highest point in its trajectory over the dunes. Pete was there, drinking wine, the last glow of sunset warming his hair.
Katy's hair. The genetic echo was so strong I could never look at one without seeing the other.
I was barefoot, so Pete didn't hear me approach. He'd found a tablecloth, silver candles, a bud vase, and an ice bucket. Two places were set, and a cooler rested on the gazebo floor.
I puled up short, clotheslined by an unexpected sense of loss.
I don't buy into the "there's but one soul mate" philosophy, but when I met Pete the attraction had been nuclear fusion. The flipping gut when our arms brushed. The thumping heart when I spotted his face in a crowd. I'd known from the start Pete was the guy I was going to marry.
I looked at Pete's face now, lined and tanned, the forehead creeping a little to the north. I'd awakened to that face for more than two decades. Those eyes watched in awe as my daughter was born. My fingers had traced that skin a thousand times. I knew every pore, every muscle, every bone.
Every excuse those lips had constructed.
Every time the truth had shredded my heart.
No way. Done.
"Hey, dude."
Pete rose and turned at the sound of my voice. "Thought I'd been stood up."
"Sorry. I fel asleep."
"Table by the window, madam?"
I took a seat. Towel-draping his arm, Pete puled a Diet Coke from the ice bucket and laid it on his wrist for my inspection.
"Excelent year," I said.
Pete poured, then began spreading food. Cold spiced shrimp. Smoked trout. Lobster salad. Marinated asparagus. Brie. Pumpernickel squares. Tapenade.
I doubt my estranged husband could survive in a world without a good deli.
We ate,
"News is news. Know what you need?"
"What?" Wary.
"Picnic."
"I had a sandwich at three."
Dropping his chair to the floor, Pete stood, turned me by the shoulders, and gently pushed me from the kitchen.
"Go grade a paper or something. Meet me at the gazebo at eight."
"I don't know, Pete."
I did know. And every cel in my hindbrain was running up a warning flag.
Pete and I had been married for twenty years, separated for only a few. Though our marriage had posed many chalenges, sexual attraction had never been one of them.
We'd rocked when we were newly-weds. We could stil rock.
If Pete hadn't rocked off the reservation.
My libido's view of Pete worried me. Things were going wel with Ryan. I didn't want to do something that might compromise that. And the last time Pete and I spent an evening together we'd ended up like kids in the back of a Chevy.
"I do know," Pete said. "Go."
"Pete—"
"You've got to eat. I've got to eat. We'l do it together and include a little sand."
There's something deep in my psyche that links food with human interaction. When home alone, I live on carry-out or frozen dinners. When solo on the road, I order room service and dine with Letterman or Raymond or Oprah.
Company did sound nice. And Pete was a good cook.
"This isn't a date, Pete."
"Of course not."
7
I GOT THROUGH THREE MORE EXAMS BEFORE DRIFTING OFF. Slumped sideways on my bed pilows, I floated in that limbo between waking and sleep, dreaming meaningless snatches. Running on a beach. Arranging bones with Emma.
In one fragment, I was sitting in a circle at an AA meeting. Ryan was there. Pete. A tal, blond man. The three were talking, but I couldn't hear the conversation. Their faces were in shadow so I couldn't read their expressions.
I awoke to a room bathed in orange and a breeze clattering the palmettos against the outside deck. The clock said eight ten.
I walked to the bathroom and rehabbed the topknot. While I'd been dozing, my bangs had decided to go for that spiky thing. I wet them, grabbed a brush, and began blow-drying. Halfway through, I stopped. Why? And why had I bothered earlier with makeup? Tossing the brush, I hurried downstairs.
Anne's house is connected to the beach by a long wooden boardwalk. A gazebo occupies a deck at the walkway's highest point in its trajectory over the dunes. Pete was there, drinking wine, the last glow of sunset warming his hair.
Katy's hair. The genetic echo was so strong I could never look at one without seeing the other.
I was barefoot, so Pete didn't hear me approach. He'd found a tablecloth, silver candles, a bud vase, and an ice bucket. Two places were set, and a cooler rested on the gazebo floor.
I puled up short, clotheslined by an unexpected sense of loss.
I don't buy into the "there's but one soul mate" philosophy, but when I met Pete the attraction had been nuclear fusion. The flipping gut when our arms brushed. The thumping heart when I spotted his face in a crowd. I'd known from the start Pete was the guy I was going to marry.
I looked at Pete's face now, lined and tanned, the forehead creeping a little to the north. I'd awakened to that face for more than two decades. Those eyes watched in awe as my daughter was born. My fingers had traced that skin a thousand times. I knew every pore, every muscle, every bone.
Every excuse those lips had constructed.
Every time the truth had shredded my heart.
No way. Done.
"Hey, dude."
Pete rose and turned at the sound of my voice. "Thought I'd been stood up."
"Sorry. I fel asleep."
"Table by the window, madam?"
I took a seat. Towel-draping his arm, Pete puled a Diet Coke from the ice bucket and laid it on his wrist for my inspection.
"Excelent year," I said.
Pete poured, then began spreading food. Cold spiced shrimp. Smoked trout. Lobster salad. Marinated asparagus. Brie. Pumpernickel squares. Tapenade.
I doubt my estranged husband could survive in a world without a good deli.
We ate,
Similar Books
