I opened the fridge, grabbed a handful of individually wrapped cheese sticks, and tossed them into the cooler. Then I shut the lid…only to open it again with a sigh. What was I doing thinking four cheese sticks would cut it? I went back to the fridge and grabbed the whole package.
And underneath it all, wrapped in a spare towel so the kids wouldn’t see, was the new swimsuit I’d bought three days ago.
Navy blue with white piping. One-piece, conservative by most standards, but it showed more skin than I’d revealed in public for a long time.
I caught my reflection in the kitchen window, the pre-dawn darkness turning the glass into a mirror. Hair pulled back in a ponytail, face bare of makeup. Nervous.
Guilty.
The guilt never left. Only five months. Marco had been dead for five months, and here I was, packing a beach bag to spend the day with another man. A man whose hand I wanted to hold. Whose mouth I wanted to kiss. Whose body I’d been thinking about far too much since our night at the Ritz-Carlton.
“You’re acting like a teenager before prom.”
I jumped, spinning around to find Michael leaning against the doorframe, coffee mug in hand. He was already dressed in jeans and a faded Stanford t-shirt, his standard weekend uniform.
“I’m just packing,” I said, too quickly.
“You’ve reorganized that bag three times in the last ten minutes.” He crossed to the coffeemaker and refilled his mug. “You know the kids are going to dump sand in everything anyway, right?”
I zipped the bag shut with more force than necessary. “I want to be prepared.”
“You want to make a good impression.” He said it gently, without judgment, but I felt defensive anyway.
“Is that so wrong?”
“Not at all.” He took a sip of coffee, studying me over the rim. “But Theresa? He already likes you. You don’t need to prove anything.”
“It’s not about him.” The words came out before I could stop them. “It’s about his kids. What if they hate me? What if they think I’m trying to replace their mother?”
Michael set down his mug and crossed to me, placing both hands on my shoulders. “Then you’ll deal with it. Same way you’ve dealt with everything else.” He squeezed gently. “Besides, you’re not the only one who should be nervous. Patrick’s bringing six kids to meet your four. That’s ten children. On a beach. With sand and waves and probably some kind of impromptu warfare. If anyone should be worried, it’s him.”
I managed a small smile. “When did you get so wise?”
“I’ve always been wise. You just never listen.”
A small voice from the doorway interrupted us. “Mom?”
I turned to find Austin standing there, already dressed in his swim trunks and a t-shirt with a periodic table on it.
“Good morning, sweetheart. You’re up early.”
“I wanted to review the tide charts.” He held up a piece of paper covered in his neat handwriting. “Low tide is at 10:47 AM. That’s the best time for tide pool exploration. We should plan our activities accordingly.”
“That’s very thorough,” I said, crouching down to Austin’s level. “Did you make a schedule for the whole day?”
He nodded, handing me the paper. I scanned it quickly—arrival time, sandcastle construction window, lunch break, water activities, departure. Everything organized down to fifteen-minute increments.
He’s trying to control the uncontrollable,I thought.Just like I am.
“This is great,” I told him, folding the paper and tucking it into my pocket. “But remember, sometimes the best part of the beach is the things we don’t plan.”
Austin frowned. “But what if things get messed up?”
“Sometimes messed up is fun.” I smoothed his hair back from his forehead. “Trust me?”
He thought about it, serious as always. “Will Patrick’s kids follow the schedule?”
“I don’t know. We’ll have to see.”
