scrolled through the pictures and thought about hot breezes, the restless waves, and time to do nothing for weeks on end. Initially Marissa’s e-mails had been full of sailing details, but after a while they grew shorter and shorter while including more pictures. It was as if time and space, wind and water and love, soothed something edgy inside her, and a calm spaciousness opened up in its place. The last picture was of Adam, tanned to a deep brown, wearing cargo shorts and flip-flops, his feet braced on the captain’s chair, a bottle of beer in one hand, a smile full of love and laughter and contentment on his face.
This trip had been good for both of them.
The next e-mail was from her sister.
Lannie,
1. Did you get the docs I sent?
2. We’re having fun in Sao Paulo and by fun I mean we haven’t left the hotel room in two days. After Israel-Palestine style negotiations between Mother and Toby it looks like London is the wedding location. See attached list of location possibilities. Mother prefers Westminster Abbey. Ignore contacts on websites; list of real contacts (aka people who would like to have Mother owe them a Really Big Favor) also attached. Please research availability and get back to me.
3. Stay out of snares.
4. Pics!
Love, Freddie
The list of real contacts included two members of Parliament, an undersecretary in the Home Office, and a bishop in the Church of England. Alana scrolled through the pictures. Her sister looked beautifully content, her hair a wreck around her face, snuggled under Toby’s muscular, tattooed arm. She shifted her grocery basket to the crook of her elbow, hit Reply, and went to work with both thumbs.
Freddie,
1. Docs received. Am working on proposal.
2. Need at least three days to pull together information. No wedding in the rose garden?
3. AM NOT GETTING ENSNARED.
4. Is the tattoo of Thor’s hammer on Toby’s neck new? Mother will not be pleased.
Love, Lannie
A shopping cart bumped into her heel as she clicked Send. She looked up to see it steered by a small boy. “Apologize to Miss Wentworth,” his mother said firmly. The boy ducked behind hair that hung in his eyes, but repeated the words before zigzagging the cart after his mother.
“I’ll get out of the way,” Alana said with a smile, then stepped to the side. What a metaphor for her life, getting in the way of elementary-school-age kids who steered a shopping cart with more purpose and passion than she lived.
Her game plan hadn’t changed. Get under Lucas Ridgeway. She hadn’t done it last night, but she’d do it tonight. She’d put off returning to Chicago for as long as possible, and she wasn’t going home the same person she was when she’d left. That would make this nothing more than wound-licking hibernation, not a tactical reinvention.
She would go home different. She would.
She plucked pasta from the shelf before heading for the produce department. There she sniffed and squeezed tomatoes, then added a cucumber, cherry tomatoes, a red onion, spicy sausage, and feta cheese to her basket. She had the spices she needed at home. The meal she intended to cook wasn’t very fancy. Pasta with homemade Bolognese sauce, a loaf of French bread slathered with butter and garlic, and a salad. She already had ice cream and fudge sauce for dessert. The next time she had him over for dinner she’d make a trip into Brookings and pick up something more interesting.
Think optimistically. There will be a next time. With that in mind, she added a box of dog biscuits to her basket.
The checkout clerk rang up the groceries while Alana bagged them into her reusable sacks for the walk home. Freddie’s reply arrived when she got home.
2. No wedding in the rose garden.
4. Tattoo is new. Mother will shit a brick, but see #2.
3 DAYS???!!!! Tomorrow? Pretty please?
She debated leaving her work clothes on, but the tweed and wool felt too warm for the warm spring air. She started the sauce simmering, e-mailed the contacts on
This trip had been good for both of them.
The next e-mail was from her sister.
Lannie,
1. Did you get the docs I sent?
2. We’re having fun in Sao Paulo and by fun I mean we haven’t left the hotel room in two days. After Israel-Palestine style negotiations between Mother and Toby it looks like London is the wedding location. See attached list of location possibilities. Mother prefers Westminster Abbey. Ignore contacts on websites; list of real contacts (aka people who would like to have Mother owe them a Really Big Favor) also attached. Please research availability and get back to me.
3. Stay out of snares.
4. Pics!
Love, Freddie
The list of real contacts included two members of Parliament, an undersecretary in the Home Office, and a bishop in the Church of England. Alana scrolled through the pictures. Her sister looked beautifully content, her hair a wreck around her face, snuggled under Toby’s muscular, tattooed arm. She shifted her grocery basket to the crook of her elbow, hit Reply, and went to work with both thumbs.
Freddie,
1. Docs received. Am working on proposal.
2. Need at least three days to pull together information. No wedding in the rose garden?
3. AM NOT GETTING ENSNARED.
4. Is the tattoo of Thor’s hammer on Toby’s neck new? Mother will not be pleased.
Love, Lannie
A shopping cart bumped into her heel as she clicked Send. She looked up to see it steered by a small boy. “Apologize to Miss Wentworth,” his mother said firmly. The boy ducked behind hair that hung in his eyes, but repeated the words before zigzagging the cart after his mother.
“I’ll get out of the way,” Alana said with a smile, then stepped to the side. What a metaphor for her life, getting in the way of elementary-school-age kids who steered a shopping cart with more purpose and passion than she lived.
Her game plan hadn’t changed. Get under Lucas Ridgeway. She hadn’t done it last night, but she’d do it tonight. She’d put off returning to Chicago for as long as possible, and she wasn’t going home the same person she was when she’d left. That would make this nothing more than wound-licking hibernation, not a tactical reinvention.
She would go home different. She would.
She plucked pasta from the shelf before heading for the produce department. There she sniffed and squeezed tomatoes, then added a cucumber, cherry tomatoes, a red onion, spicy sausage, and feta cheese to her basket. She had the spices she needed at home. The meal she intended to cook wasn’t very fancy. Pasta with homemade Bolognese sauce, a loaf of French bread slathered with butter and garlic, and a salad. She already had ice cream and fudge sauce for dessert. The next time she had him over for dinner she’d make a trip into Brookings and pick up something more interesting.
Think optimistically. There will be a next time. With that in mind, she added a box of dog biscuits to her basket.
The checkout clerk rang up the groceries while Alana bagged them into her reusable sacks for the walk home. Freddie’s reply arrived when she got home.
2. No wedding in the rose garden.
4. Tattoo is new. Mother will shit a brick, but see #2.
3 DAYS???!!!! Tomorrow? Pretty please?
She debated leaving her work clothes on, but the tweed and wool felt too warm for the warm spring air. She started the sauce simmering, e-mailed the contacts on
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