His lips curve up as he gazes down at me. And then he pulls me into his arms.
Oh my God, I could live here.
“Youdolike physical touch,” I whisper stupidly, swaying slightly as though I’m drunk.
He chuckles and I feel the sound reverberating through my chest as his arms hold me a little tighter.
Our entire bodies are aligned from the length of our torsos down to our knees. He breaks away long before I want him to.
He spreads the picnic blanket out and drapes the beach towels on a rock to make sure they dry fully so we can use them as blankets later. I’m finding it hard to stop watching every little thing that he’s doing.
“Can I help?” I ask.
He shakes his head and glances at me as he sits down on the blanket. “Just relax.”
Easier said than done, pal.
I go and sit beside him, envious of the ease with which he stretches out and tucks his hands behind his head.
“Was Mellie ever married?” he asks.
“A long time ago,” I reply as I settle down beside him. “Her husband refused to foster so they parted ways.”
“She chose fostering over marriage?”
“Yeah,” I say softly. “She wanted to take in the girl who lived next door, but her husband told her not to get involved.”
“What was the situation with the girl?”
“Mellie used to hear her parents through the walls, yelling and screaming and banging about. When the girl was in her back garden and thought no one was watching, Mellie would often see bruises on her. She was thirteen, but so skinny. Just this broken little person. Mellie started to intercept her when she came home from school. She’d pretend that she was throwing out food because she’d cooked too much, and she’d plead with her to take it rather than see it go to waste. Eventually she called social services. Her husband was cross, he really didn’t want her to interfere, but she couldn’t look the other way. She applied to be a kinship carer, which turned out to be surprisingly easy. She and the girl moved away and started afresh.”
“That’s incredible.”
“Yeah. Mellie was and still is an angel.”
“What happened to the girl?” he asks.
I stare at the sky. “She grew up, had a baby with a Kosovar Albanian refugee, and became an aid worker.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I see his face turn toward mine. “She was your mother?” he asks with surprise.
I nod, my eyes misting.
He reaches over and takes my hand, and somehow it also feels like the most natural thing in the world.
We’re lying onour sides, propped up on our elbows, talking. We finished eating a while ago and the sun has long since disappeared beyond the uplands, but the air remains warm and balmy.
Étienne’s hand is resting on the blanket between us. I pick it up and study his fingernails.
“How do you get them clean?” I ask. “After you’ve been at work?”
“I scrub them,” he replies with amusement, indulging me as I continue to play with his hand.
Since that hug, it’s easier to be tactile with him.
“Your hands are rougher than they used to be,” I comment.
“Yours are just as soft.”
