“Right,” she said. “Eventually, though, I let it go, figuring wherever he was, he’d have access to a Dick Francis book.” She played with the fringe on her sweater’s sleeve. “I think he was smiling because he saw my mother.”
“I really hope you’re right,” I said. “Because time is such a thief. There’s never enough of it when you love someone.”
“So true.”
Too soon, it was eleven.
“I should get home,” I said. “You have to work tomorrow.”
“Yes, I’ll be at it right after my pilates class. Gillian’s not back yet, but her substitute is great. All the ladies and I try to get there as many times a week as we can. Gillian keeps us all in good shape.”
“I can see that.” I rose to my feet, offering her my hand to help her up.
She took it, then headed to the turntable, taking off the last record and returning it to its jacket. “This was a great night. Thank you.”
“It was. I’m glad we talked through the whole Dana mess. I feel better.”
“I understand. I’m grateful you were willing to bring it up first thing so we could enjoy ourselves after that.”
“Does this mean you’ll go out with me again?” I asked.
“You could stay for dinner after the driving lesson?” She smiled, tugging on an earring. “We could order in.”
“I’d love to, but only if you let me cook.”
“If you insist.”
She walked me to the door. I promised to show up for Tyler’s driving lesson the next day. We kissed, lingering for a moment, before I headed out into the chilly April night, almost shell-shocked by the success of the evening. When I’d first arrived in Willet Cove, as bruised and hurting as I’d ever been, Margaret told me a life could change for the better at any moment. I’d replied that it could also change for the worst. She’d just smiled and patted my hand. “Something very good’s coming your way soon, dear one.”
Turns out she was right. Now I just had to keep from blowing it all apart.
The next day,I called our new bartender to see if he’d cover my shift. He wanted as many hours as he could get, so he happily agreed to sub in for me. If I kept writing, maybe I could talk myself into quitting and focusing on my real job. It wasn’t that I needed the cash. I had plenty in the bank and royalties coming in that provided more than a little nest egg. But I’d felt so upendedand lost when I’d first come to Willet Cove that I needed something to do. I guess I was like my dad that way.
The weather was bright and just shy of seventy degrees. In town, everyone seemed to be buoyant and optimistic, as if the sun had brought an unrelenting hope. Cherry and apple trees were in their final extravagant week, dropping petals onto the sidewalks like tissue-paper confetti. The wild ceanothus along the headlands had turned electric blue, and the Scotch broom on the roadsides was so vividly yellow it almost hurt to look at directly.
Willet Cove did something to a person on a day like this. The main street ran parallel to the water, and if you walked on the ocean side you could see the headlands stretching north, green and gold above the white cliff edges, with the Pacific glittering below. A few tourists had found their way up from the city already. I could tell by the way they stopped in the middle of the sidewalk to take photographs of things the locals walked past without seeing anymore. Our bakery had its doors open, and the smell of brown butter and sugar drifted halfway down the block. Two old men sat at a table outside playing checkers and nibbling on pound cake. Dorian’s book store, Ink & Anchor, also had its doors open. Poe, the store cat, had curled into a ball in the sunlight right in the middle of the doorway, without any regard to the customers who had to step around the fluffy orange king. Esme’s flower shop was open, with tubs of peonies, roses and foxgloves displayed by the front door. I peered through the glass to see one of Esme’s employees putting together a bouquet.
Our grocery store in town was small, with gourmet, niche items that appealed to our many tourists. For a small shop, their wine department was robust, with two full aisles, organized by region, with handwritten staff recommendation cards tucked in front of the bottles. There were dozens of kinds of cheeses displayed in the deli case, soft and hard and aged, with aselection of crackers and honey and fig jam arranged alongside them. The produce section ran along the front windows, with local strawberries, fat bunches of asparagus, and rhubarb the color of a sunset. The bakery counter near the entrance turned out sourdough and pastries every morning, and the smell of it lingered in the whole store until closing. It was the kind of place where you went in for one thing and came out twenty minutes later with bags of treasures you never even knew you wanted.
I went straight to the butcher at the back. The guy behind the counter looked up when I came in.
“Ribeyes, please,” I said. “Three. The best you’ve got.”
A few minutes later, I had the wrapped package in hand and went in search of a few other items for dinner. I grabbed some of the asparagus, baby Yukon Gold potatoes, and stuff to make a salad. It felt good to plan an evening for Seraphina and Tyler like I was part of a family.
Isn’t that what I’d wanted all along? I’d thought it would be with Dana, but that had proven not to be the case.
As if my thoughts conjured her, I caught sight of a People magazine cover with her on it. Great. The most read magazine in the country, sitting right there in the rack between the checkout lanes where every person in Willet Cove would see it on their way out.
Dana looked beautiful in soft lighting, wearing a simple black dress, and her brown hair cascading down her shoulders. She always knew how to work a camera. The expression was the one she’d perfected for situations like this. Not angry, more sad. But a dignified sad, that screamed a tale of long-suffering but saint-like Dana King.
Dana King: I Lost My Marriage to Ivy James.
Below the headline, a smaller line: Exclusive:The country star opens up about betrayal, heartbreak, and finding her way back.
I stood there for a moment with my basket of groceries and stared at the photo of the woman I’d been married to for four years looking back at me from a magazine rack in a small town grocery store on the Northern California coast. How strange and surreal it all was. And how completely unrelated to anything that mattered to me now.
I put my basket on the conveyor belt and didn’t look at it again.
