“Sorry,” he turns his head slightly to acknowledge me. “I should have followed. But this view!” He lifts up his arms wide as if to hug the shimmering ocean. “How can you walk by? I could stay out here all day.”
“And it would be a different sky and sea every hour.” I stand next to him. “Trust me, I love this view. I never tire of it.”
“What is it about the horizon that draws our attention?” he asks, again staring out to sea.
“My dad used to say it’s the closest we get to seeing the future. And I suppose that’s true. If you sail out far enough west you will cross over to tomorrow.”
“Huh, that’s really nice,” Edward says, his eyes still on the horizon. “Your dad said that?”
“Yeah, I’m not sure if he read it in a book or came up with it himself. He was a voracious reader. He was always reading aloud to us. That’s probably why my sister decided to become a poet.”
“She’s a poet?” He turns to me, surprised. “Like, that’s her job?”
“Well, she also grows flowers and plays piano. But yeah, when Annie marks her profession on a form she writes ‘poet.’”
“And does she make any money doing this?”
My laugh is a little cynical. “No, not yet. But that’s my family. They are the most delightful dreamers. I’m the boring one.”
“I don’t think you’re boring.” Edward gives me a slow smile—and goodness, the man has a dangerous smile! It’s the opposite of a generic megawatt grin you’d find on billboards and toothpaste commercials. His smile is subtle and personal. The faint crinkles at the corners of his eyes do the heavy lifting, his lips twitching just slightly, like we are both in on the same wonderful secret.
“Um . . . uh . . . thank you,” I stammer.
“Elinor—Oh, hi! Who is this?” My mom asks with delight as she steps out onto the porch wearing a floral apron over a concert tee. Her hair is piled in a wild curly updo and tied with a yellow scarf.
Edward steps forward. “Hi, I’m Edward Frechette. I came in place of my mother, Barbara Norland.”
“Oh! Of course! Eddie.” My mom throws her arms around a very surprised Edward, who looks more startled than uncomfortable. “You’ve grown so tall.” She steps back, looking him up and down. Some of the flour from her apron remains on his lapel. “And handsome.”
Edward looks away, embarrassed. Flustered Edward might be my kryptonite—he’s so utterly charming.
“But your mom’s not coming? I was looking forward to catching up. It’s been years.”
“Sorry, Mrs. Greenwood, you’ll have to put up with me.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. This is such a treat! And please, it’s Maggie. None of that ‘Mrs. Greenwood’ with me. Elinor, you remember Eddie? He once spent the summer here at the parkwith his grandpa.”
“Um . . . yes . . . we figured that out,” I mumble.
“You two were so stinkin’ cute playing together. Elinor’s always had a knack for making friends. But you two...” She looks between us, beaming. “You were two peas in a pod.” She leans in to Edward confidentially. “You know she cried after you left?”
I give my mom a not-so-subtle close-your-mouth glare, but she prattles on undaunted. “The girls had a nickname for you. What was it?”
“I... I don’t recall,” I jump in. “I barely remember any of this.” I am not above lying to preserve my dignity.
“Of course you remember. You girls talked about him all the time.” Edward gives me a look. “What did you call him? Something like ‘Hot Boy’ or ‘Our Boy.”’
“We didnotcall you ‘hot boy’ I swear.”
Edward’s eyes sparkle with humor, but his mouth remains serious. “No, of course. I doubt anyone’s ever called me that.”
“You’ve got to be kidding,” exclaims my mom. “You’re very good looking. Isn’t he, Elinor?” Fortunately, she carries on without waiting for my answer. “And you’re staying here tonight?”
“If that’s alright with you?”
“Of course it is. It’s better this way.” My mom’s eyes flick to mine with meaning which I aggressively pretend not to understand.
“So Eddie, to what do we owe the pleasure of your visit?”
