She took her time. When Sarah came, her hand flew to the shower wall for balance and Lizzie had to grip her hips to keep her steady.
After, they stood under the spray holding each other. Just breathing. The water was starting to go lukewarm.
“We should actually wash before the hot water runs out,” Sarah said.
They did, quickly and efficiently. Sarah washed Lizzie’s back. Lizzie washed Sarah’s hair. Domestic and intimate and perfect.
When they finally climbed out, they dried off and collapsed on Sarah’s bed in their towels. Both exhausted. Both completely content.
“We both have the day off tomorrow,” Sarah said. “I checked the schedule.”
“Sneaky.”
“Strategic.” Sarah grinned. “I want to take you somewhere.”
“Where?”
“It’s a surprise. But you need to wear something cute.”
Lizzie curled into Sarah’s side. “Deal.”
They fell asleep like that. Still in towels. Still wrapped around each other. Still unable to believe this was real.
But it was. And for the first time in a long time, both felt exactly where they were supposed to be.
Chapter 20
Lizzie
The next day, they drove through Old Town past the cemetery. Lizzie’s arms wrapped around Sarah’s waist, the closeness feeling natural now.
Sarah pulled up in front of a house with a sign that read “Ernest Hemingway Home and Museum.”
Lizzie gasped. “Seriously?”
“You’ve been here almost three weeks and haven’t visited yet. That’s a crime.”
“I’ve been busy.” Lizzie was already off the scooter, staring at the house. “Oh my god. This is really happening.”
They paid for tickets and walked through the gate. Immediately, cats appeared. Dozens of them. White cats, orange cats, tabby cats. Some with six toes.
“The six-toed cats,” Lizzie whispered like she was in church.
She dropped to her knees and a large orange cat walked over. She held out her hand and it rubbed against her fingers.
“Hi baby. You’re so pretty. Are you a descendant of Hemingway’s cats? Yes, you are. Yes, you are.”
They toured the house. Lizzie was reverent, touching nothing but looking at everything. The furniture where Hemingway had sat. The dining room where he’d entertained.The bedroom where he’d slept. Then they reached the study up a narrow staircase.
Lizzie stopped in the doorway. The room was separate from the main house, built above what used to be the carriage house. Hemingway’s desk sat by the window overlooking the garden. A typewriter. Books. Everything preserved exactly as he’d left it.
“He wrote here.”
She walked to the window and looked out. Sarah stayed back, giving her space.
“I want this,” Lizzie said. “To write things that make people feel the way I feel when I read his work.”
“You’ll have it.”
